THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.   WALTER  L.   MYERS 


READINGS  IN 
ENGLISH  PROSE  OF  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


EDITED  BY 

RAYMOND  MACDONALD  ALDEN 

Late  Professor  of  English  in  Leland  Stanford  Junior  University 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON   •   NEW  YORK  •    CHICAGO   •    DALLAS   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

®tjc  &toer«foe  •£«««  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,    IpII,    BY   RAYMOND   MACDONALD   ALOEN 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


U^e  jRibrrstbr  J3rtss 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U  .  S  .  A 


PREFACE 

THE  great  Doctor  Johnson,  in  one  of  the  essays  reprinted  in 
this  volume,  condemns  the  multiplication  of  books  undertaken 
by  those  who  "  have  often  no  other  task  than  to  lay  two  books 
before  them  out  of  which  they  compile  a  third,  without  any  new 
materials  of  their  own."  But  if  it  be  supposed  on  this  ground 
that  he  would  frown  on  the  present  undertaking,  one  might 
plead  his  own  admission  that  there  is  an  occasional  compiler 
who, ''  though  he  exerts  no  great  abilities  in  the  work,  facilitates 
the  progress  of  others"  and  makes  "that  easy  of  attainment 
which  is  already  written."  Here,  at  any  rate,  are  suggested  the 
origin  and  purpose  of  this  collection.  For  some  time  it  has  been 
possible  for  those  studying  periods  of  English  literature  to  find 
in  single  volumes  fairly  representative  selections  from  the  poets 
of  the  several  ages;  but  to  represent  prose  writings  adequately 
is  much  more  difficult,  and  those  who  have  met  this  problem 
have  found  it  one  involving  no  little  trouble  and  expense. 
Through  the  cooperation  of  the  publishers,  who  have  shown 
themselves  ready  to  undertake  the  making  of  a  volume  suffi- 
ciently generous  to  accomplish  for  prose  what  relatively  meagre 
books  will  do  for  poetry,  it  is  hoped  that  the  needs  of  students  of 
eighteenth-century  literature  have  been  sufficiently  met.  If  this 
hope  shall  be  justified  by  experience,  similar  volumes  may  be 
undertaken  for  the  earlier  and  later  periods. 

The  principles  governing  the  choice  of  selections  may  be 
briefly  explained.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  thought  well  to  re- 
present the  half-dozen  (more  or  less)  most  important  prose 
writers  of  the  century  by  fairly  generous  and  complete  speci- 
mens of  their  work,  approximating  some  twenty  to  thirty  thou- 
sand words  each.  These  selections  cover,  in  the  experience  of 
the  editor,  the  assignments  of  prescribed  reading  set  for  one  or 
two  weeks,  in  college  courses  dealing  with  the  century  as  a 
whole.  The  authors  thus  largely  represented  are  Defoe,  Swift, 
Steele,  Addison,  Johnson,  Boswell,  and  Burke. 

In  the  second  place,  it  was  desired  to  represent  the  lesser 


iv  PREFACE 

writers  of  the  age  by  briefer  specimens  of  their  work,  to  which 
students  could  be  referred  for  the  cursory  illustration  of  mat- 
ters discussed  in  lectures  or  text-books.  Such  are  the  selec- 
tions from  the  philosophers,  the  epistolarians,  the  pamphlet- 
eers, and  the  novelists  of  the  century.  The  last  of  these  groups 
—  the  novelists  —  it  was  not  at  first  proposed  to  include  at  all, 
since  their  work  in  its  most  important  aspects  can  hardly  be 
represented  by  extracts.  But  it  was  suggested  by  some  of  the 
friends  who  were  good  enough  to  criticise  the  first  draft  of  the 
contents  of  the  collection,  that  the  novelists  might  be  repre- 
sented as  prose  writers,  in  perhaps  the  same  proportion  that 
they  would  occupy  in  a  course  dealing  with  the  period  as  a 
whole  but  without  special  attention  to  the  novel  or  the  drama ; 
and  this  suggestion  has  been  followed.  The  selections  made 
from  the  novelists,  then,  must  not  be  supposed  to  exhibit  the 
authors  as  novelists;  but  they  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  far- 
cical humor  of  Fielding,  the  contrasting  sentimentalism  of 
Richardson  and  Sterne,  and  the  romantic  machinery  of  the 
"  tales  of  terror." 

This  is  as  far  as  the  collection  need  go,  for  those  concerned 
only  with  the  intrinsic  values  of  literature.  But  it  was  desired  to 
go  further,  and  include  specimens  —  sometimes  of  no  consider- 
able literary  quality  —  which  are  suggestive  for  what  might 
be  called  the  laboratory  study  of  the  history  of  literature,  — 
passages  exemplifying  important  critical  doctrines  or  literary 
tendencies  of  the  age.  Such  are  the  selections  from  Dennis, 
Gibber,  the  Wartons,  and  Hurd,  the  critical  chapters  from 
Fielding  and  the  Prefaces  of  Richardson.  In  like  manner  the 
critical  writings  of  Addison  and  Johnson  have  been  repre- 
sented more  largely  than  intrinsic  interest  might  dictate, 
especially  where  they  touch  on  poetry  which  the  reader  may  be 
presumed  to  have  been  studying.  The  wise  teacher  or  student 
will  surely  seek,  where  it  is  possible,  to  make  one  writer  illus- 
trate another,  and  to  find  examples  of  contemporary  judg- 
ments and  aims  which  will  make  less  mysterious  for  the  modern 
reader  literary  fashions  of  an  earlier  age.  So  there  is  value,  not 
only  in  Johnson's  lastingly  sound  analyses  of  the  poetry  of 
Dryden  and  Pope,  but  also  in  the  characteristic  limitations  of 
his  appreciation  of  Milton.  And  there  is  real  interest,  even  for 
those  who  have  no  desire  to  go  deeply  into  literary  theory,  in 


PREFACE  v 

the  discussion  of  poetic  justice  by  Dennis  and  Addison,  in 
Johnson's  final  exposure  of  the  fallacy  in  the  doctrine  of  the 
unities,  in  Fielding's  penetrating  comments  on  his  own  art,  and 
in  the  casual  but  significant  remarks  of  Cowper  and  Gray  on 
their  work  as  poets.  Those  who  care  to  do  so  may  be  enabled  to 
go  still  further  into  the  criticism  of  the  century,  making  the 
acquaintance  of  its  efforts  in  the  direction  of  an  aesthetic 
theory,  through  the  selections  from  Addison's  and  Hume's 
essays  on  Taste,  Reynolds's  discussion  of  Beauty,  and  Burke's 
account  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful.  A  similar  attempt  has 
been  made  to  enable  the  student  to  illustrate  for  himself  "  the 
spirit  of  1789,"  through  the  selections  from  Godwin,  Paine,  and 
The  Anti-Jacobin. 

Certain  books,  from  which  extracts  would  otherwise  have 
been  a  matter  of  course,  have  been  passed  by  because  they  are 
commonly  familiar  in  more  elementary  reading:  these  include 
the  first  two  parts  of  Gulliver's  Travels,  Robinson  Crusoe,  the 
De  Coverley  papers,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  Burke's  writ- 
ings on  the  American  Revolution.  A  place  has  been  made  for 
the  dubious  prose  of  Macpherson's  Ossianic  writings,  on  the 
purely  practical  ground  that  they  should  be  known  to  the  stu- 
dent of  the  period,  but  are  not  represented  in  any  of  the  stand- 
ard collections  of  eighteenth-century  poetry. 

Complete  compositions  have  of  course  been  preferred,  other 
things  being  equal,  especially  from  the  more  important  writers. 
But  where  actual  utility,  or  exigencies  of  space,  demanded,  the 
editor  has  freely  excerpted,  in  the  manner  of  one  reading  aloud 
under  circumstances  where  it  is  desirable  that  the  knowledge  of 
the  reader  should  save  the  time  of  the  hearer.  Omissions  have 
been  indicated  scrupulously,  and  in  most  cases  it  is  possible, 
by  noting  these  indications,  to  discover  whether  any  selection 
includes  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  the  chapter,  essay,  or 
letter  from  which  it  is  taken.  There  are,  however,  a  very  few 
unnoted  omissions  pudoris  causa,  to  which  it  seemed  unneces- 
sary to  call  attention  in  a  non-critical  text. 

The  geographical  situation  of  the  editor  has  made  it  impos- 
sible, regrettably,  to  present  a  verified  text  of  a  considerable 
number  of  the  selections;  in  other  words,  in  many  cases  it  has 
been  necessary  to  depend  on  the  work  of  previous  editors  and 
publishers.  In  some  cases  one  need  have  little  fear  of  the  re- 


vi  PREFACE 

suits;  in  others  there  is  too  much  reason  to  suspect  that  the  text 
must  be  bettered  hereafter,  since  for  several  of  the  writers  repre- 
sented no  good  modern  editing  has  been  accomplished.  It  has 
fortunately  been  possible  to  give  a  sound  text  in  certain  cases 
where  there  has  been  conspicuous  need  of  one :  for  example,  the 
text  of  Defoe's  essay  on  Academies  and  his  Shortest  Way  with 
the  Dissenters  has  been  taken  from  original  sources,  and  cor- 
rects errors  which  have  been  multiplied  in  earlier  reprints. 
Spelling  and  punctuation  have  been  everywhere  modernized. 

Footnotes  have  been  supplied  according  to  a  principle  which 
cannot  be  followed  with  consistency,  but  which  amounts  to 
this:  give  only  such  information  as  may  be  assumed  to  be  neces- 
sary for  the  apprehending  of  the  general  meaning  of  the  text  and 
not  to  be  available  in  a  convenient  dictionary.  Extended  or  un- 
common quotations  from  Latin  writers,  so  beloved  in  our  period, 
have  been  translated;  phrases  which  should  be  the  property  of 
every  cultivated  person  have  not.  Perhaps  an  incidental  result 
of  the  reading  of  this  book  may  prove  to  be  some  mitigation  of 
the  heresy  that  it  is  possible  to  know  English  literature  without 
understanding  the  Latin  tongue. 

And  now,  if  any  one  may  be  presumed  to  have  read  this  Pre- 
face thus  far,  the  editor  may  venture  to  ask  the  privilege,  after 
setting  forth  impartially  the  words  of  so  many  other  and  better 
men,  to  do  himself  the  pleasure  of  adding  two  remarks  which 
follow  from  the  repeated  reading,  in  manuscript  and  proof,  of 
the  whole  contents  of  the  volume.  The  first  remark  is  in  no  way 
a  matter  of  literature,  but  tends  toward  cheerfulness  of  mind  so 
clearly  that  it  may  be  justifiable  in  any  connection.  Whoever 
dips  far  into  these  eighteenth-century  authors  will  discover  that 
in  their  age  it  was  believed  that  men  were  more  eager  than  in 
earlier  times  for  the  getting  and  the  display  of  wealth;  that  the 
whole  world  was  forsaking  the  country  and  making  life  wretched 
in  cities;  that  old-fashioned  honesty  and  simplicity  of  manners 
were  becoming  hard  to  find;  that  young  persons  were  increas- 
ingly disrespectful  of  their  elders;  that  books  and  periodicals 
were  being  multiplied  to  an  alarming  excess ;  and  that  church- 
going,  with  other  practices  of  the  Christian  religion,  was 
rapidly  going  out  of  use.  These  were  some  of  the  characteris- 
tic ills  of  the  period.  Perhaps,  then,  when  the  reader  is  next 
told  that  they  are  the  characteristic  ills  of  the  early  twentieth 


PREFACE  vii 

century,  he  may  suspect  that  they  were  equally  so  in  the  first, 
the  fifth,  and  the  fifteenth,  and  may  derive  some  consolation 
thereby. 

The  second  remark,  more  germane  to  the  purposes  of  the 
book,  is  that  the  repeated  perusal  of  this  corpus  of  eighteenth- 
century  prose  has  tended  always  to  increase,  on  the  part  of  at 
least  one  reader,  his  respect  for  the  person  and  works  of  Samuel 
Johnson.  The  space  here  accorded  him  is  by  no  means  due  to 
mere  tradition  or  literary  orthodoxy,  but  to  a  genuine  belief  in 
the  lasting  worth  of  what  he  had  to  say.  Granted  certain  of  his 
pet  foibles,  —  such  as  the  habit  of  beginning  every  composition 
with  a  sonorous  abstraction  that  gives  no  remotest  clue  to  the 
subject  in  hand,  and  his  willful  unappreciativeness  of  a  republi- 
can like  Milton  or  a  dilettante  like  Gray,  —  and  where  shall 
you  find  one  who  wrote  on  almost  every  thing  and  said  so  little, 
whether  on  attics,  morals,  or  Shakespeare,  which  is  not  still 
true  and  still  important?  So  let  the  Preface  end  with  him,  as  it 
began;  and  it  is  to  the  memory  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.,  at 
once  the  most  sturdy  and  the  most  pathetic  figure  among  its 
contributors,  that  this  book  would  be  dedicated,  were  it  not 
presumption  thus  lightly  to  seek  to  disturb  so  venerable  a 
ghost. 

R.  M.  A. 


CONTENTS 

DANIEL  DEFOE 

AN  ESSAY  UPON  PROJECTS  (1697) I 

THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  THE  DISSENTERS  (1702)  .        .       .11 

THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL  (1706) 23 

A  SEASONABLE  WARNING  AND  CAUTION  (1712)  .  .  .  .32 
AND  WHAT  IF  THE  PRETENDER  SHOULD  COME?  (1713)  .  .  35 
A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE  YEAR  (1722)  .  .  .  .41 

JONATHAN  SWIFT 

A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  (1704) 52 

THE  ABOLISHING  OF  CHRISTIANITY  (1708)  .  .  .  .76 
A  PROPOSAL  FOR  CORRECTING  THE  ENGLISH  TONGUE  (1712)  .  87 

GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  (1726) 94 

A  MODEST  PROPOSAL  (1729) 114 

RICHARD   STEELE 

THE  TATLER  (1709-10) 

No.      i  [Prospectus] 123 

No.    25  [Dueling] 125 

No.    95  [Mr.  Bickerstaff  Visits  a  Friend]  .        .        .        .127 

No.  104  [Old  Letters] .131 

No.  181  [Memories  of  Sorrow] 133 

No.  217  [Scolds] 135 

No.  263  [Fashionable  Hours]     .......  138 

THE  SPECTATOR  (1711-12) 
No.      4  [Character  of  the  Spectator]         .....  141 

No.    49  [Coffee-House  Characters] 145 

No.  157  [Boys'  Schools]     ........  148 

No.  324  [The  Mohock  Club.  —  A  Love  Letter]         .        .        .151 

THE  GUARDIAN  (1713) 

No.    34  [Character  of  a  Gentleman]          .        .        .  .  154 

MR.  STEELE'S  APOLOGY  FOR  HIMSELF  (1714)     ....  157 

JOSEPH  ADDISON 
THE  SPECTATOR  (1711-12) 

No.    10  [Prospectus] 159 

No.    16  [To  his  Correspondents] 162 


x  CONTENTS 

No.    1 8  [The  Italian  Opera] 165 

No.    26  [Westminster  Abbey] 168 

No.    34  [The  Spectator  at  the  Club] 170 

No.    40  [Tragedy] 174 

No.    50  [The  Indian  Kings] 176 

No.    62  [Wit] -    -  A        .180 

No.    70  [The  Ballad  of  Chevy  Chase]       .        .        «        *        .184 

No.    8 1  [Party  Patches] .  »        .  189 

No.  159  [The  Vision  of  Mirzah] 192 

No.  267  [Paradise  Lost]     ...  ....  197 

No.  323  [Journal  of  a  Lady] •        .        .  201 

No.  409  [Taste] 204 

No.  419  [The  Supernatural  in  Poetry]- 208 

JOHN  DENNIS 

THE  GENIUS  AND  WRITINGS  OF  SHAKESPEARE  (1712)        .        .211 
REMARKS  UPON  CATO  (1713)       . 215 

ANTHONY  ASHLEY  COOPER,  EARL  OF  SHAFTESBURY 
CHARACTERISTICS  (1711) 222 

GEORGE  BERKELEY 
DIALOGUES  BETWEEN  HYLAS  AND  PHILONOUS  (1713)        .        .231 

BERNARD  MANDEVILLE 
THE  FABLE  OF  THE  BEES  (1714,  1723) 245 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 

LETTERS  (1717-55)       .        .        ..      .     -f*  •;    .       .       .       .255 

ALEXANDER  POPE 
PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  (1725) 265 

COLLEY    GIBBER 
APOLOGY  FOR  THE  LIFE  OF  COLLEY  GIBBER  (1740)  .        .        .  269 

HENRY  ST.  JOHN,  VISCOUNT  BOLINGBROKE 
OF  THE  TRUE  USE  OF  RETIREMENT  AND  STUDY  (1752)    .        .273 
LETTER  TO  ALEXANDER  POPE  (1753) 277 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 
CLARISSA  HARLOWE  (1747-48)     . 281 

SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON  (1753)     -    •      >--   .       .       .       .287 


CONTENTS  xi 

HENRY  FIELDING 

JOSEPH  ANDREWS  (1742) 293 

TOM  JONES  (1749) ,  304 

PHILIP  STANHOPE,   EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD 
LETTERS  TO  ms  SON  (1747-49) 315 

THOMAS   GRAY 
LETTERS  (1742-68) 324 

THOMAS  WARTON 
OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  FAIRY  QUEEN  (1754)      .       .  .  331 

JOSEPH  WARTON 
THE  GENIUS  AND  WRITINGS  OF  POPE  (1756,1782)      .       .       .336 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

THE  RAMBLER  (1751) 

No.  102  [The  Voyage  of  Life] 341 

No.  117  [Living  in  a  Garret] 345 

No.  161  [History  of  a  Garret] 350 

PREFACE  TO  THE  DICTIONARY  (1755) 354 

THE  IDLER  (1758-59) 

No.    36  [The  Bugbear  Style] 363 

No.    85  [The  Multiplication  of  Books] 365 

No.    88  ["What  have  ye  done?"] 367 

PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  (1765)       ......  369 

LIVES  OF  THE  ENGLISH  POETS  (1779-81) 

Milton 386 

Dryden 392 

Addison 402 

Pope 405 

DAVID  HUME 

ESSAY  ON  THE  STANDARD  OF  TASTE  (1757)        ....  410 
MY  OWN  LIFE  (1777) 417 

SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS 
ESSAY  ON  THE  IDEA  OF  BEAUTY  (1759) 421 

LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS  (1769-71)      .       .       •      *.       •/"    .  425 


xii  CONTENTS 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

THE  BEE  (1759) _  .        -435 

THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  (1762) 

Letter     4  [Character  of  the  English] 440 

Letter    13  [Westminster  Abbey]        .        •  &    •        •        •        •  443 

Letter    21  [At  the  Play] 446 

Letter    41  [St.  Paul's] 45° 

Letter    54  [Beau  Tibbs] 452 

Letter    55  [A  Visit  to  Tibbs] 455 

Letter    98  [Courts  of  Justice] 458 

RICHARD  KURD 
LETTERS  ON  CHIVALRY  AND  ROMANCE  (1762)     ....  462 

HORACE  WALPOLE 

LETTERS  (1746-74) 467 

THE  CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO  (1764) 4?6 

LAURENCE  STERNE 

TRISTRAM  SHANDY  (1759-67) 480 

A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  (1768) 490 

TOBIAS   GEORGE  SMOLLETT 
HUMPHREY  CLINKER  (1771) 502 

FRANCES  BURNEY   (MADAME  D'ARBLAY) 
DIARY  AND  LETTERS  (1778-92)  511 

WILLIAM    COWPER 
LETTERS  (1766-85)       .        .......        c  525 

THE  MONTHLY  REVIEW- 
REVIEW  OF  BURNS'S  POEMS  (1786) 534 

EDWARD   GIBBON 

THE  DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF  THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE  (1776-88)     .  537 
MEMOIRS  (1796) 542 

GILBERT  WHITE 
NATURAL  HISTORY  AND  ANTIQUITIES  OF  SELBORNE  (1789)        .  550 


CONTENTS  xiii 

EDMUND  BURKE 

OUR  IDEAS  OF  THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL  (1756)  .  .  558 
THOUGHTS  ON  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  PRESENT  DISCONTENTS  (1770)  570 
REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION  IN  FRANCE  (1790)  .  .  576 
LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD  (1796)  ......  592 

THOMAS  PAINE 
THE  RIGHTS  OF  MAN  (1791)      .       .       .       ...;.,.  616 

JAMES  BOSWELL 

JOURNAL  OF  A  TOUR  TO  THE  HEBRIDES  (1786)  .  .  .  624 
LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON  (1791)  .  .  •  •  •  .  627 

WILLIAM   GODWIN 
POLITICAL  JUSTICE  (1793)    .        .        .        .        .    •-*  .    -   .        .  667 

ANN  RADCLIFFE 
THE  MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPHO  (1794)          .        .  •_,.-.        .  676 

MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS 
THE  MONK  (1795) _....._-   .       .  684 

THE  ANTI-JACOBIN 
THE  ROVERS  (1798)     .       .       .       .    <*.*%.       ...  691 

APPENDIX 
JAMES  MACPHERSON 
THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN  (1760, 1762)        .        .        .        .        .        .  697 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND   BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES    .        .  70? 
INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 725 


DANIEL   DEFOE 

AN  ESSAY  UPON  PROJECTS 
1697 

[This  essay,  one  of  Defoe's  earliest  works,  included  a  History  of  Projects 
and  separate  sections  proposing  plans  for  reform  of  the  banking  and  bank- 
ruptcy laws,  an  insurance  system,  the  development  of  public  roads,  the 
care  of  idiots,  and  various  academies.  The  last-named  section  is  here  re- 
presented by  two  extracts.] 

OF   ACADEMIES 

WE  have  in  England  fewer  of  these  than  in  any  part  of  the 
world,  at  least  where  learning  is  in  so  much  esteem.  But  to 
make  amends,  the  two  great  seminaries  we  have  are,  without 
comparison,  the  greatest  —  I  won't  say  the  best  —  in  the 
world ;  and  though  much  might  be  said  here  concerning  univer- 
sities in  general,  and  foreign  academies  in  particular,  I  content 
myself  with  noting  that  part  in  which  we  seem  defective.  The 
French,  who  justly  value  themselves  upon  erecting  the  most 
celebrated  Academy  of  Europe,  owe  the  lustre  of  it  very  much 
to  the  great  encouragement  the  kings  of  France  have  given  to  it. 
And  one  of  the  members,  making  a  speech  at  his  entrance,  tells 
you  that  "  'tis  not  the  least  of  the  glories  of  their  invincible 
monarch  to  have  engrossed  all  the  learning  of  the  world  in  that 
sublime  body." 

The  peculiar  study  of  the  Academy  of  Paris  has  been  to  re- 
fine and  correct  their  own  language,  which  they  have  done  to 
that  happy  degree  that  we  see  it  now  spoken  in  all  the  courts  of 
Christendom  as  the  language  allowed  to  be  most  universal. 

I  had  the  honor  once  to  be  a  member  of  a  small  society  who 
seemed  to  offer  at  this  noble  design  in  England ;  but  the  great- 
ness of  the  work  and  the  modesty  of  the  gentlemen  concerned 
prevailed  with  them  to  desist  an  enterprise  which  appeared 
too  great  for  private  hands  to  undertake.  We  want  indeed  a 
Richelieu  to  commence  such  a  work ;  for  I  am  persuaded  were 
there  such  a  genius  in  our  kingdom  to  lead  the  way,  there  would 


2  DANIEL  DEFOE 

not  want  capacities  who  could  carry  on  the  work  to  a  glory 
equal  to  all  that  has  gone  before  them.  The  English  tongue  is  a 
subject  not  at  all  less  worthy  the  labor  of  such  a  society  than 
the  French,  and  capable  of  a  much  greater  perfection.  The 
learned  among  the  French  will  own  that  the  comprehensive- 
ness of  expression  is  a  glory  in  which  the  English  tongue  not  only 
equals,  but  excels  its  neighbors.  Rapin,  St.  Evremont,  and  the 
most  eminent  French  authors  have  acknowledged  it;  and  my 
Lord  Roscommon,  who  is  allowed  to  be  a  good  judge  of  English, 
because  he  wrote  it  as  exactly  as  any  ever  did,  expresses  what 
I  mean  in  these  lines:  — 

For  who  did  ever  in  French  authors  see 

The  comprehensive  English  energy? 

The  weighty  bullion  of  one  sterling  line, 

Drawn  to  French  wire,  would  through  whole  pages  shine. 

"And  if  our  neighbors  will  yield  us,  as  their  greatest  critic 
has  done,  the  preference  for  sublimity  and  nobleness  of  style, 
we  will  willingly  quit  all  pretensions  to  their  insignificant 
gaiety." 

'Tis  a  great  pity  that  a  subject  so  noble  should  not  have  some 
as  noble  to  attempt  it;  and  for  a  method,  what  greater  can  be 
set  before  us  than  the  Academy  of  Paris,  which,  to  give  thft 
French  their  due,  stands  foremost  among  all  the  great  attempt!? 
in  the  learned  part  of  the  world. 

The  present  King  of  England,  of  whom  we  have  seen  the 
whole  world  writing  panegyrics  and  encomiums,  and  whom 
his  enemies,  when  their  interest  does  not  silence  them,  are  apt 
to  say  more  of  than  ourselves;  as  in  the  war  he  has  given  sur- 
prising instances  of  a  greatness  of  spirit  more  than  common, 
so  in  peace,  I  dare  say,  with  submission,  he  shall  never  have  an 
opportunity  to  illustrate  his  memory  more  than  by  such  a  foun- 
dation; by  which  he  shall  have  opportunity  to  darken  the  glory 
of  the  French  King  in  peace,  as  he  has  by  his  daring  attempts 
in  the  war. 

Nothing  but  pride  loves  to  be  flattered,  and  that  only  as  'tis 
a  vice  which  blinds  us  to  our  own  imperfections.  I  think  princes 
are  particularly  unhappy  in  having  their  good  actions  magni- 
fied, as  their  evil  actions  covered.  But  King  William,  who  has 
already  won  praise  by  the  steps  of  dangerous  virtue,  seems  re- 


AN  ESSAY  UPON  PROJECTS  3 

served  for  some  actions  which  are  above  the  touch  of  flattery, 
whose  praise  is  in  themselves. 

And  such  would  this  be;  and  because  I  am  speaking  of  a  work 
which  seems  to  be  proper  only  for  the  hand  of  the  King  himself, 
I  shall  not  presume  to  carry  on  this  chapter  to  the  model  as  I 
have  done  in  other  subjects.  Only  thus  far:  — 

That  a  society  be  erected  by  the  King  himself,  if  his  Majesty 
thought  fit,  and  composed  of  none  but  persons  of  the  first  figure 
in  learning;  and  'twere  to  be  wished  our  gentry  were  so  much 
lovers  of  learning  that  birth  might  always  be  joined  with  capa- 
city. 

The  work  of  this  society  should  be  to  encourage  polite  learn- 
ing, to  polish  and  refine  the  English  tongue,  and  advance  the 
so  much  neglected  faculty  of  correct  language,  to  establish 
purity  and  propriety  of  style,  and  to  purge  it  from  all  the  irregu- 
lar additions  that  ignorance  and  affectation  have  introduced; 
and  all  those  innovations  in  speech,  if  I  may  call  them  such, 
which  some  dogmatic  writers  have  the  confidence  to  foster  upon 
their  native  language,  as  if  their  authority  were  sufficient  to 
make  their  own  fancy  legitimate. 

By  such  a  society  I  dare  say  the  true  glory  of  our  English 
style  would  appear,  and  among  all  the  learned  part  of  the  world 
be  esteemed,  as  it  really  is,  the  noblest  and  most  comprehen- 
sive of  all  the  vulgar  languages  in  the  world. 

Into  this  society  should  be  admitted  none  but  persons  emi- 
nent for  learning,  and  yet  none,  or  but  very  few,  whose  business 
or  trade  was  learning.  For  I  may  be  allowed,  I  suppose,  to  say 
we  have  seen  many  great  scholars,  mere  learned  men,  and  gradu- 
ates in  the  last  degree  of  study,  whose  English  has  been  far  from 
polite,  full  of  stiffness  and  affectation,  hard  words,  and  long  un- 
usual coupling  of  syllables  and  sentences,  which  sound  harsh 
and  untunable  to  the  ear,  and  shock  the  reader  both  in  expres- 
sion and  understanding. 

In  short,  there  should  be  room  in  this  society  for  neither 
clergyman,  physician,  or  lawyer.  Not  that  I  would  put  an  af- 
front upon  the  learning  of  any  of  those  honorable  employments, 
much  less  upon  their  persons.  But  if  I  do  think  that  their  sev- 
eral professions  do  naturally  and  severally  prescribe  habits  of 
speech  to  them  peculiar  to  their  practice,  and  prejudicial  to 
the  study  I  speak  of,  I  believe  I  do  them  no  wrong.  Nor  do  I 


4  DANIEL  DEFOE 

deny  but  there  may  be,  and  now  are,  among  some  of  all  those 
professions,  men  of  style  and  language,  great  masters  of  Eng- 
lish, whom  few  men  will  undertake  to  correct;  and  where  such 
do  at  any  time  appear,  their  extraordinary  merit  should  find 
them  a  place  in  this  society;  but  it  should  be  rare,  and  upon 
very  extraordinary  occasions,  that  such  be  admitted. 

I  would  therefore  have  this  society  wholly  composed  of  gen- 
tlemen, whereof  twelve  to  be  of  the  nobility,  if  possible,  and 
twelve  private  gentlemen,  and  a  class  of  twelve  to  be  left  open 
for  mere  merit,  let  it  be  found  in  who  or  what  sort  it  would, 
which  should  lie  as  the  crown  of  their  study,  who  have  done 
something  eminent  to  deserve  it.  The  voice  of  this  society 
should  be  sufficient  authority  for  the  usage  of  words,  and  suffi- 
cient also  to  expose  the  innovations  of  other  men's  fancies; 
they  should  preside  with  a  sort  of  judicature  over  the  learning 
of  the  age,  and  have  liberty  to  correct  and  censure  the  exorbi- 
tance of  writers,  especially  of  translators.  The  reputation  of 
this  society  would  be  enough  to  make  them  the  allowed  judges 
of  style  and  language;  and  no  author  would  have  the  impu- 
dence to  coin  without  their  authority.  Custom,  which  is  now 
our  best  authority  for  words,  would  always  have  its  original 
here,  and  not  be  allowed  without  it.  There  should  be  no  more 
occasion  to  search  for  derivations  and  constructions,  and 
'twould  be  as  criminal  then  to  coin  words  as  money. 

The  exercises  of  this  society  would  be  lectures  on  the  English 
tongue,  essays  on  the  nature,  original,  usage,  authorities,  and 
differences  of  words,  on  the  propriety,  purity,  and  cadence  of 
style,  and  of  the  politeness  and  manner  in  writing,  reflections 
upon  irregular  usages,  and  corrections  of  erroneous  customs  in 
words;  and,  in  short,  everything  that  would  appear  necessary 
to  the  bringing  our  English  tongue  to  a  due  perfection,  and  our 
gentlemen  to  a  capacity  of  writing  like  themselves;  to  banish 
pride  and  pedantry,  and  silence  the  impudence  and  imperti- 
nence of  young  authors,  whose  ambition  is  to  be  known,  though 
it  be  by  their  folly.  .  .  . 

Under  this  head  of  Academies  I  might  bring  in  a  project 
for  — 


AN  ESSAY  UPON  PROJECTS  5 

AN  ACADEMY  FOR  WOMEN 

I  have  often  thought  of  it  as  one  of  the  most  barbarous  cus- 
toms in  the  world,  considering  us  as  a  civilized  and  a  Christian 
country,  that  we  deny  the  advantages  of  learning  to  women. 
We  reproach  the  sex  every  day  with  folly  and  impertinence, 
while  I  am  confident,  had  they  the  advantages  of  education 
equal  to  us,  they  would  be  guilty  of  less  than  ourselves. 

One  would  wonder,  indeed,  how  it  should  happen  that  wo- 
men are  conversible  at  all,  since  they  are  only  beholding  to  nat- 
ural parts  for  all  their  knowledge.  Their  youth  is  spent  to  teach 
them  to  stitch  and  sew  or  make  baubles.  They  are  taught  to 
read,  indeed,  and  perhaps  to  write  their  names  or  so,  and  that  is 
the  height  of  a  woman's  education.  And  I  would  but  ask  any 
who  slight  the  sex  for  their  understanding,  what  is  a  man  (a  gen- 
tleman, I  mean)  good  for  that  is  taught  no  more? 

I  need  not  give  instances,  or  examine  the  character  of  a  gen- 
tleman with  a  good  estate,  and  of  a  good  family,  and  with 
tolerable  parts,  and  examine  what  figure  he  makes  for  want  of 
education. 

The  soul  is  placed  in  the  body  like  a  rough  diamond,  and 
must  be  polished,  or  the  lustre  of  it  will  never  appear:  and  'tis 
manifest  that  as  the  rational  soul  distinguishes  us  from  brutes, 
so  education  carries  on  the  distinction  and  makes  some  less 
brutish  than  others.  This  is  too  evident  to  need  any  demonstra- 
tion. But  why  then  should  women  be  denied  the  benefit  of  in- 
struction? If  knowledge  and  understanding  had  been  useless 
additions  to  the  sex,  God  Almighty  would  never  have  given 
them  capacities,  for  He  made  nothing  needless.  Besides,  I 
would  ask  such  what  they  can  see  in  ignorance  that  they  should 
think  it  a  necessary  ornament  to  a  woman?  or  how  much  worse 
is  a  wise  woman  than  a  fool?  or  what  has  the  woman  done  to  for- 
feit the  privilege  of  being  taught?  Does  she  plague  us  with  her 
pride  and  impertinence?  Why  did  we  not  let  her  learn,  that 
she  might  have  had  more  wit?  Shall  we  upbraid  women  with 
folly,  when  'tis  only  the  error  of  this  inhuman  custom  that  hin- 
dered them  being  made  wiser? 

The  capacities  of  women  are  supposed  to  be  greater  and  their 
senses  quicker  than  those  of  the  men;  and  what  they  might  be 
capable  of  being  bred  to  is  plain  from  some  instances  of  female 


6  DANIEL  DEFOE 

wit,  which  this  age  is  not  without;  which  upbraids  us  with  in- 
justice, and  looks  as  if  we  denied  women  the  advantages  of 
education  for  fear  they  should  vie  with  the  men  in  their  im- 
provements. 

To  remove  this  objection,  and  that  women  might  have  at 
least  a  needful  opportunity  of  education  in  all  sorts  of  useful 
learning,  I  propose  the  draught  of  an  Academy  for  that  pur- 
pose. 

I  know  'tis  dangerous  to  make  public  appearances  of  the  sex. 
They  are  not  either  to  be  confined  or  exposed;  the  first  will  dis- 
agree with  their  inclinations,  and  the  last  with  their  reputa- 
tions, and  therefore  it  is  somewhat  difficult;  and  I  doubt  a 
method  proposed  by  an  ingenious  lady  in  a  little  book  called 
Advice  to  the  Ladies  would  be  found  impracticable,  for,  saving 
my  respect  to  the  sex,  the  levity,  which  perhaps  is  a  little  pecu- 
liar to  them,  at  least  in  their  youth,  will  not  bear  the  restraint; 
and  I  am  satisfied  nothing  but  the  height  of  bigotry  can  keep 
up  a  nunnery.  Women  are  extravagantly  desirous  of  going 
to  heaven,  and  will  punish  their  pretty  bodies  to  get  thither; 
but  nothing  else  will  do  it,  and  even  in  that  case  sometimes  it 
falls  out  that  nature  will  prevail. 

When  I  talk,  therefore,  of  an  academy  for  women,  I  mean 
both  the  model,  the  teaching,  and  the  government  different 
from  what  is  proposed  by  that  ingenious  lady,  for  whose  pro- 
posal I  have  a  very  great  esteem,  and  also  a  great  opinion  of  her 
wit;  different,  too,  from  all  sorts  of  religious  confinement,  and, 
above  all,  from  vows  of  celibacy. 

Wherefore  the  academy  I  propose  should  differ  but  little 
from  public  schools,  wherein  such  ladies  as  were  willing  to 
study  should  have  all  the  advantages  of  learning  suitable  to 
their  genius. 

But  since  some  severities  of  discipline  more  than  ordinary 
would  be  absolutely  necessary  to  preserve  the  reputation  of  the 
house,  that  persons  of  quality  and  fortune  might  not  be  afraid 
to  venture  their  children  thither,  I  shall  venture  to  make  a 
small  scheme  by  way  of  essay. 

The  house  I  would  have  built  in  a  form  by  itself,  as  well  as  in 
a  place  by  itself.  The  building  should  be  of  three  plain  fronts, 
without  any  jettings  or  bearing-work,  that  the  eye  might  at 
a  glance  see  from  one  coin  to  the  other;  the  gardens  walled  in 


AN  ESSAY  UPON  PROJECTS  7 

the  same  triangular  figure,  with  a  large  moat,  and  but  one  en- 
trance. 

When  this  every  part  of  the  situation  was  contrived  as  well 
as  might  be  for  discovery,  and  to  render  intriguing  dangerous, 
I  would  have  no  guards,  no  eyes,  no  spies  set  over  the  ladies, 
but  shall  expect  them  to  be  tried  by  the  principles  of  honor 
and  strict  virtue.  .  .  . 

In  this  house,  the  persons  who  enter  should  be  taught  all  sorts 
of  breeding  suitable  to  both  their  genius  and  their  quality;  and 
in  particular  music  and  dancing,  which  it  would  be  cruelty  to 
bar  the  sex  of,  because  they  are  their  darlings;  but  besides  this, 
they  should  be  taught  languages,  as  particularly  French  and 
Italian;  and  I  would  venture  the  injury  of  giving  a  woman  more 
tongues  than  one. 

They  should,  as  a  particular  study,  be  taught  all  the  graces 
of  speech  and  all  the  necessary  air  of  conversation,  which  our 
common  education  is  so  defective  in  that  I  need  not  expose  it. 
They  should  be  brought  to  read  books,  and  especially  history, 
and  so  to  read  as  to  make  them  understand  the  world,  and  be 
able  to  know  and  judge  of  things  when  they  hear  of  them. 

To  such  whose  genius  would  lead  them  to  it  I  would  deny  no 
sort  of  learning;  but  the  chief  thing  in  general  is  to  cultivate 
the  understandings  of  the  sex,  that  they  may  be  capable  of  all 
sorts  of  conversation;  that,  their  parts  and  judgments  being  im- 
proved, they  may  be  as  profitable  in  their  conversation  as  they 
are  pleasant. 

Women,  in  my  observation,  have  little  or  no  difference  in 
them,  but  as  they  are  or  are  not  distinguished  by  education. 
Tempers  indeed  may  in  some  degree  influence  them,  but  the 
main  distinguishing  part  is  their  breeding. 

The  whole  sex  are  generally  quick  and  sharp.  I  believe  I 
may  be  allowed  to  say  generally  so,  for  you  rarely  see  them 
lumpish  and  heavy  when  they  are  children,  as  boys  will  often 
be.  If  a  woman  be  well  bred,  and  taught  the  proper  manage- 
ment of  her  natural  wit,  she  proves  generally  very  sensible  and 
retentive;  and  without  partiality,  a  woman  of  sense  and  man- 
ners is  the  finest  and  most  delicate  part  of  God's  creation,  the 
glory  of  her  Maker,  and  the  great  instance  of  His  singular  re- 
gard to  man,  His  darling  creature,  to  whom  He  gave  the  best 
gift  either  God  could  bestow  or  man  receive.  And  'tis  the  sor- 


8  DANIEL  DEFOE 

didest  piece  of  folly  and  ingratitude  in  the  world  to  withhold 
from  the  sex  the  due  lustre  which  the  advantages  of  education 
gives  to  the  natural  beauty  of  their  minds. 

A  woman  well  bred  and  well  taught,  furnished  with  the 
additional  accomplishments  of  knowledge  and  behavior,  is  a 
creature  without  comparison;  her  society  is  the  emblem  of 
sublimer  enjoyments;  her  person  is  angelic  and  her  conversa- 
tion heavenly;  she  is  all  softness  and  sweetness,  peace,  love, 
wit,  and  delight.  She  is  every  way  suitable  to  the  sublimest 
wish,  and  the  man  that  has  such  a  one  to  his  portion  has  no- 
thing to  do  but  to  rejoice  in  her  and  be  thankful. 

On  the  other  hand,  suppose  her  to  be  the  very  same  woman, 
and  rob  her  of  the  benefit  of  education,  and  it  follows  thus:  — 

If  her  temper  be  good,  want  of  education  makes  her  soft  and 
easy.  Her  wit,  for  want  of  teaching,  makes  her  impertinent 
and  talkative.  Her  knowledge,  for  want  of  judgment  and  ex- 
perience, makes  her  fanciful  and  whimsical.  If  her  temper  be 
bad,  want  of  breeding  makes  her  worse,  and  she  grows  haughty, 
insolent,  and  loud.  If  she  be  passionate,  want  of  manners 
makes  her  termagant  and  a  scold,  which  is  much  at  one  with 
lunatic.  If  she  be  proud,  want  of  discretion  (which  still  is  breed- 
ing) makes  her  conceited,  fantastic,  and  ridiculous.  And  from 
these  she  degenerates  to  be  turbulent,  clangorous,  noisy,  nasty, 
and  the  devil. 

Methinks  mankind  for  their  own  sakes  —  since,  say  what 
we  will  of  the  women,  we  all  think  fit  at  one  time  or  other  to  be 
concerned  with  them  —  should  take  some  care  to  breed  them 
up  to  be  suitable  and  serviceable,  if  they  expected  no  such 
thing  as  delight  from  them.  Bless  us!  what  care  do  we  take  to 
breed  up  a  good  horse  and  to  break  him  well!  and  what  a  value 
do  we  put  upon  him  when  it  is  done,  and  all  because  he  should 
be  fit  for  our  use!  and  why  not  a  woman?  Since  all  her  orna- 
ments and  beauty  without  suitable  behavior  is  a  cheat  in  na- 
ture, like  the  false  tradesman,  who  puts  the  best  of  his  goods 
uppermost,  that  the  buyer  may  think  the  rest  are  of  the  same 
goodness. 

Beauty  of  the  body,  which  is  the  women's  glory,  seems  to  be 
now  unequally  bestowed,  and  Nature,  or  rather  Providence,  to 
lie  under  some  scandal  about  it,  as  if  'twas  given  a  woman  for 
a  saare  to  men,  and  so  made  a  kind  of  a  she-devil  of  her;  be- 


AN  ESSAY  UPON  PROJECTS  9 

cause,  they  say,  exquisite  beauty  is  rarely  given  with  wit,  more 
rarely  with  goodness  of  temper,  and  never  at  all  with  modesty. 
And  some,  pretending  to  justify  the  equity  of  such  a  distribu- 
tion, will  tell  us  'tis  the  effect  of  the  justice  of  Providence  in  di- 
viding particular  excellencies  among  all  His  creatures,  share  and 
share  alike,  as  it  were,  that  all  might  for  something  or  other  be 
acceptable  to  one  another,  else  some  would  be  despised. 

I  think  both  these  notions  false,  and  yet  the  last,  which  has 
the  show  of  respect  to  Providence,  is  the  worst,  for  it  supposes 
Providence  to  be  indigent  and  empty,  as  if  it  had  not  where- 
with to  furnish  all  the  creatures  it  had  made,  but  was  fain  to  be 
parsimonious  in  its  gifts,  and  distribute  them  by  piecemeal  for 
fear  of  being  exhausted. 

If  I  might  venture  my  opinion  against  an  almost  universal 
notion,  I  would  say  most  men  mistake  the  proceedings  of  Provi- 
dence in  this  case,  and  all  the  world  at  this  day  are  mistaken  in 
their  practice  about  it.  And  because  the  assertion  is  very  bold, 
I  desire  to  explain  myself. 

That  Almighty  First  Cause  which  made  us  all  is  certainly 
the  fountain  of  excellence,  as  it  is  of  being,  and  by  an  invisible 
influence  could  have  diffused  equal  qualities  and  perfections  to 
all  the  creatures  it  has  made,  as  the  sun  does  its  light,  without 
the  least  ebb  or  diminution  to  Himself,  and  has  given  indeed  to 
every  individual  sufficient  to  the  figure  His  providence  had  de- 
signed him  in  the  world. 

I  believe  it  might  be  defended  if  I  should  say  that  I  do  sup- 
pose God  has  given  to  all  mankind  equal  gifts  and  capacities  in 
that  He  has  given  them  all  souls  equally  capable,  and  that  the 
whole  difference  in  mankind  proceeds  either  from  accidental 
difference  in  the  make  of  their  bodies  or  from  the  foolish  differ- 
ence of  education. 

i.  From  Accidental  Difference  in  Bodies.  I  would  avoid  dis- 
coursing here  of  the  philosophical  position  of  the  soul  in  the 
body.  But  if  it  be  true,  as  philosophers  do  affirm,  that  the  un- 
derstanding and  memory  is  dilated  or  contracted  according  to 
the  accidental  dimensions  of  the  organ  through  which  'tis  con- 
veyed, then,  though  God  has  given  a  soul  as  capable  to  me  as 
another,  yet  if  I  have  any  natural  defect  in  those  parts  of  the 
body  by  which  the  soul  should  act,  I  may  have  the  same  soul 
infused  as  another  man,  and  yet  he  be  a  wise  man  and  I  a  very 


io  DANIEL  DEFOE 

fool.  For  example,  if  a  child  naturally  have  a  defect  in  the 
organ  of  hearing,  so  that  he  could  never  distinguish  any  sound, 
that  child  shall  never  be  able  to  speak  or  read,  though  it  have 
a  soul  capable  of  all  the  accomplishments  in  the  world.  The 
brain  is  the  centre  of  all  the  soul's  actings,  where  all  the  distin- 
guishing faculties  of  it  reside;  and  'tis  observable  a  man  who 
has  a  narrow  contracted  head,  in  which  there  is  not  room  for 
the  due  and  necessary  operations  of  nature  by  the  brain,  is 
never  a  man  of  very  great  judgment;  and  that  proverb,  "A 
great  head  and  little  wit,"  is  not  meant  by  nature,  but  is  a  re- 
proof upon  sloth,  as  if  one  should,  by  way  of  wonder,  say,  "Fie, 
fie!  you  that  have  a  great  head  have  but  little  wit;  that's 
strange !  that  must  certainly  be  your  own  fault."  From  this  no- 
tion I  do  believe  there  is  a  great  matter  in  the  breed  of  men  and 
women  —  not  that  wise  men  shall  always  get  wise  children,  but 
I  believe  strong  and  healthy  bodies  have  the  wisest  children, 
and  sickly,  weakly  bodies  affect  the  wits  as  well  as  the  bodies 
of  their  children.  We  are  easily  persuaded  to  believe  this  in  the 
breeds  of  horses,  cocks,  dogs,  and  other  creatures,  and  I  be- 
lieve 'tis  as  visible  in  men. 

But  to  come  closer  to  the  business,  the  great  distinguishing 
difference  which  is  seen  in  the  world  between  men  and  women 
is  in  their  education,  and  this  is  manifested  by  comparing  it 
with  the  difference  between  one  man  or  woman  and  another. 

And  herein  it  is  that  I  take  upon  me  to  make  such  a  bold  as- 
sertion that  all  the  world  are  mistaken  in  their  practice  about 
women;  for  I  cannot  think  that  God  Almighty  ever  made  them 
so  delicate,  so  glorious  creatures,  and  furnished  them  with  such 
charms,  so  agreeable  and  so  delightful  to  mankind,  with  souls 
capable  of  the  same  accomplishments  with  men,  and  all  to  be 
only  stewards  of  our  houses,  cooks,  and  slaves. 

Not  that  I  am  for  exalting  the  female  government  in  the 
least;  but,  in  short,  I  would  have  men  take  women  for  compan- 
ions, and  educate  them  to  be  fit  for  it.  A  woman  of  sense  and 
breeding  will  scorn  as  much  to  encroach  upon  the  prerogative 
of  the  man  as  a  man  of  sense  will  scorn  to  oppress  the  weakness 
of  the  woman.  But  if  the  women's  souls  were  refined  and  im- 
proved by  teaching,  that  word  would  be  lost;  to  say,  the  weak- 
ness of  the  sex  as  to  judgment,  would  be  nonsense,  for  ignor- 
ance and  folly  would  be  no  more  found  among  women  than  men. 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  DISSENTERS      n 

I  remember  a  passage  which  I  heard  from  a  very  fine  woman; 
she  had  wit  and  capacity  enough,  an  extraordinary  shape  and 
face,  and  a  great  fortune,  but  had  been  cloistered  up  all  her 
time,  and,  for  fear  of  being  stolen,  had  not  had  the  liberty  of  be- 
ing taught  the  common  necessary  knowledge  of  women's  affairs; 
and  when  she  came  to  converse  in  the  world,  her  natural  wit 
made  her  so  sensible  of  the  want  of  education,  that  she  gave 
this  short  reflection  on  herself:  —  "I  am  ashamed  to  talk  with 
my  very  maids,"  says  she,  "for  I  don't  know  when  they  do 
right  or  wrong.  I  had  more  need  go  to  school  than  be  mar- 
ried." 

I  need  not  enlarge  on  the  loss  the  defect  of  education  is  to  the 
sex,  nor  argue  the  benefit  of  the  contrary  practice;  'tis  a  thing 
will  be  more  easily  granted  than  remedied.  This  chapter  is  but 
an  essay  at  the  thing,  and  I  refer  the  practice  to  those  happy 
days,  if  ever  they  shall  be,  when  men  shall  be  wise  enough  to 
mend  it. 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  THE   DISSENTERS 

1702 

[This  pamphlet  was  written  while  a  bill  was  pending  in  Parliament  on 
the  subject  of  "occasional  conformity,"  a  practice  by  which  members  of 
the  Dissenting  denominations  preserved  their  political  rights  by  occasion- 
ally attending  service  at  the  Church  of  England.  Defoe,  a  Dissenter,  as- 
sumed the  position  of  a  violent  Tory  and  High  Churchman,  his  mock  at- 
tack on  his  fellow-religionists  being  so  skilfully  devised  that  it  was  taken 
seriously  and  approved  by  some  Tories.  When  its  real  character  was 
understood,  the  author  was  prosecuted  for  libeling  the  Church,  and  the 
book  was  ordered  burned  by  the  House  of  Commons.] 

SIR  ROGER  L'ESTRANGE  tells  us  a  story  in  his  collection  of 
fables,  of  the  cock  and  the  horses.  The  cock  was  gotten  to  roost 
in  the  stable  among  the  horses,  and  there  being  no  racks  or 
other  conveniences  for  him,  it  seems  he  was  forced  to  roost 
upon  the  ground.  The  horses  jostling  about  for  room,  and  put- 
ting the  cock  in  danger  of  his  life,  he  gives  them  this  grave  ad- 
vice, "Pray,  gentlefolks,  let  us  stand  still,  for  fear  we  should 
tread  upon  one  another." 

There  are  some  people  in  the  world,  who,  now  they  are  un- 


12 

perched,  and  reduced  to  an  equality  with  other  people,  and 
under  strong  and  very  just  apprehensions  of  being  further 
treated  as  they  deserve,  begin,  with  ^Esop's  cock,  to  preach  up 
peace  and  union,  and  the  Christian  duties  of  moderation,  for- 
getting that,  when  they  had  the  power  in  their  hands,  these 
graces  were  strangers  in  their  gates. 

It  is  now  near  fourteen  years  that  the  glory  and  peace  of  the 
purest  and  most  flourishing  Church  in  the  world  has  been 
eclipsed,  buffeted,  and  disturbed  by  a  sort  of  men  whom  God 
in  His  providence  has  suffered  to  insult  over  her  and  bring  her 
down.  These  have  been  the  days  of  her  humiliation  and  tribu- 
lation. She  has  borne  with  invincible  patience  the  reproach  of 
the  wicked,  and  God  has  at  last  heard  her  prayers,  and  delivered 
her  from  the  oppression  of  the  stranger. 

And  now  they  find  their  day  is  over,  their  power  gone,  and 
the  throne  of  this  nation  possessed  by  a  royal,  English,  true, 
and  ever  constant  member  of,  and  friend  to,  the  Church  of 
England.  Now  they  find  that  they  are  in  danger  of  the  Church 
of  England's  just  resentments;  now  they  cry  out  Peace,  Union, 
Forbearance,  and  Charity,  as  if  the  Church  had  not  too  long 
harbored  her  enemies  under  her  wing,  and  nourished  the  viper- 
ous brood  till  they  hiss  and  fly  in  the  face  of  the  mother  that 
cherished  them! 

No,  gentlemen,  the  time  of  mercy  is  past,  your  day  of  grace 
is  over;  you  should  have  practiced  peace,  and  moderation,  and 
charity,  if  you  expected  any  yourselves. 

We  have  heard  none  of  this  lesson  for  fourteen  years  past  We 
have  been  huffed  and  bullied  with  your  Act  of  Toleration;  you 
have  told  us  that  you  are  the  Church  established  by  law,  as  well 
as  others;  have  set  up  your  canting  synagogues  at  our  church 
doors,  and  the  Church  and  members  have  been  loaded  with  re- 
proaches, with  oaths,  associations,  abjurations,  and  what  not. 
Where  has  been  the  mercy,  the  forbearance,  the  charity,  you 
have  shown  to  tender  consciences  of  the  Church  of  England,  that 
could  not  take  oaths  as  fast  as  you  made  them?  that,  having 
sworn  allegiance  to  their  lawful  and  rightful  King,  could  not 
dispense  with  their  oath,  their  King  being  still  alive,  and  swear 
to  your  new  hodge-podge  of  a  Dutch  Government?  These  have 
been  turned  out  of  their  livings,  and  they  and  their  families  left 
to  starve;  their  estates  double  taxed  to  carry  on  a  war  they  had 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  DISSENTERS      13 

no  hand  in,  and  you  got  nothing  by.  What  account  can  you 
give  of  the  multitudes  you  have  forced  to  comply,  against  their 
consciences,  with  your  new  sophistical  politics,  who,  like  new 
converts  in  France,  sin  because  they  cannot  starve?  And  now 
the  tables  are  turned  upon  you;  you  must  not  be  persecuted;  it 
is  not  a  Christian  spirit! 

You  have  butchered  one  king,  deposed  another  king,  and 
made  a  mock  king  of  a  third,  and  yet  you  could  have  the  face 
to  expect  to  be  employed  and  trusted  by  the  fourth.  Anybody 
that  did  not  know  the  temper  of  your  party  would  stand  amazed 
at  the  impudence,  as  well  as  folly,  to  think  of  it. 

Your  management  of  your  Dutch  monarch,  whom  you  re- 
duced to  a  mere  King  of  Cl — s,  is  enough  to  give  any  future 
princes  such  an  idea  of  your  principles  as  to  warn  them  suffi- 
ciently from  coming  into  your  clutches;  and  God  be  thanked 
the  Queen  is  out  of  your  hands,  knows  you,  and  will  have  a  care 
of  you. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  the  supreme  authority  of  a  nation  has 
in  itself  a  power,  and  a  right  to  that  power,  to  execute  the  laws 
upon  any  part  of  that  nation  it  governs.  The  execution  of  the 
known  laws  of  the  land,  and  that  with  but  a  gen  tie  hand  neither, 
was  all  that  the  fanatical  party  of  this  land  have  ever  called 
persecution;  this  they  have  magnified  to  a  height,  that  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  Huguenots  in  France  were  not  to  be  compared 
with.  Now,  to  execute  the  known  laws  of  a  nation  upon  those 
who  transgress  them,  after  voluntarily  consenting  to  the  mak- 
ing those  laws,  can  never  be  called  persecution,  but  justice.  But 
justice  is  always  violence  to  the  party  offending,  for  every  man 
is  innocent  in  his  own  eyes.  The  first  execution  of  the  laws 
against  Dissenters  in  England  was  in  the  days  of  King  James 
the  First;  and  what  did  it  amount  to?  Truly  the  worst  they  suf- 
fered was  at  their  own  request:  to  let  them  go  to  New  England 
and  erect  a  new  colony,  and  give  them  great  privileges,  grants, 
and  suitable  powers,  keep  them  under  protection,  and  defend 
them  against  all  invaders,  and  receive  no  taxes  or  revenue  from 
them.  This  was  the  cruelty  of  the  Church  of  England.  Fatal 
lenity !  It  was  the  ruin  of  that  excellent  prince,  King  Charles  the 
First.  Had  King  James  sent  all  the  Puritans  in  England  away 
to  the  West  Indies,  we  had  been  a  national,  unmixed  Church; 
the  Church  of  England  had  been  kept  undivided  and  entire. 


14  DANIEL  DEFOE 

To  requite  the  lenity  of  the  father,  they  take  up  arms  against 
the  son;  conquer,  pursue,  take,  imprison,  and  at  last  put  to 
death  the  anointed  of  God,  and  destroy  the  very  being  and  na- 
ture of  government,  setting  up  a  sordid  impostor,  who  had  nei- 
ther title  to  govern  nor  understanding  to  manage,  but  supplied 
that  want  with  power,  bloody  and  desperate  counsels,  and  craft 
without  conscience. 

Had  not  King  James  the  First  withheld  the  full  execution  of 
the  laws,  had  he  given  them  strict  justice,  he  had  cleared  the 
nation  of  them,  and  the  consequences  had  been  plain:  his  son 
had  never  been  murdered  by  them  nor  the  monarchy  over- 
whelmed. It  was  too  much  mercy  shown  them  was  the  ruin  of 
his  posterity  and  the  ruin  of  the  nation's  peace.  One  would 
think  the  Dissenters  should  not  have  the  face  to  believe  that  we 
are  to  be  wheedled  and  canted  into  peace  and  toleration,  when 
they  know  that  they  have  once  requited  us  with  a  civil  war,  and 
once  with  an  intolerable  and  unrighteous  persecution,  for  our 
former  civility. 

Nay,  to  encourage  us  to  be  easy  with  them,  it  is  apparent  that 
they  never  had  the  upper  hand  of  the  Church,  but  they  treated 
her  with  all  the  severity,  with  all  the  reproach  and  contempt 
as  was  possible.  What  peace  and  what  mercy  did  they  show 
the  loyal  gentry  of  the  Church  of  England  in  the  time  of  their 
triumphant  Commonwealth?  How  did  they  put  all  the  gentry 
of  England  to  ransom,  whether  they  were  actually  in  arms  for 
the  King  or  not,  making  people  compound  for  their  estates  and 
starve  their  families?  How  did  they  treat  the  clergy  of  the 
Church  of  England,  sequestered  the  ministers,  devoured  the 
patrimony  of  the  Church,  and  divided  the  spoil  by  sharing  the 
Church  lands  among  their  soldiers,  and  turning  her  clergy  out 
to  starve?  Just  such  measure  as  they  have  meted  should  be 
measured  them  again. 

Charity  and  love  is  the  known  doctrine  of  the  Church  of 
England,  and  it  is  plain  she  has  put  it  in  practice  towards  the 
Dissenters,  even  beyond  what  they  ought,  till  she  has  been 
wanting  to  herself,  and  in  effect  unkind  to  her  sons,  particu- 
larly in  the  too  much  lenity  of  King  James  the  First,  men- 
tioned before.  Had  he  so  rooted  the  Puritans  from  the  face  of 
the  land,  which  he  had  an  opportunity  early  to  have  done,  they 
had  not  had  the  power  to  vex  the  Church  as  since  they  have  done. 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  DISSENTERS       15 

In  the  days  of  King  Charles  the  Second,  how  did  the  Church 
reward  their  bloody  doings  with  lenity  and  mercy,  except  the 
barbarous  regicides  of  the  pretended  court  of  justice!  Not  a 
soul  suffered  for  all  the  blood  in  an  unnatural  war.  King  Charles 
came  in  all  mercy  and  love,  cherished  them,  preferred  them, 
employed  them,  withheld  the  rigor  of  the  law,  and  oftentimes, 
even  against  the  advice  of  his  Parliament,  gave  them  liberty  of 
conscience;  and  how  did  they  requite  him  with  the  villainous 
contrivance  to  depose  and  murder  him  and  his  successor  at  the 
Rye  Plot! 

King  James,  as  if  mercy  was  the  inherent  quality  of  the  fam- 
ily, began  his  reign  with  unusual  favor  to  them.  Nor  could 
their  joining  with  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  against  him  move 
him  to  do  himself  justice  upon  them ;  but  that  mistaken  prince 
thought  to  win  them  by  gentleness  and  love,  proclaimed  an  uni- 
versal liberty  to  them,  and  rather  discountenanced  the  Church 
of  England  than  them.  How  they  requited  him  all  the  world 
knows. 

The  late  reign  is  too  fresh  in  the  memory  of  all  the  world 
to  need  a  comment;  how,  under  pretence  of  joining  with  the 
Church  in  redressing  some  grievances,  they  pushed  things  to 
that  extremity,  in  conjunction  with  some  mistaken  gentlemen, 
as  to  depose  the  late  King,  as  if  the  grievance  of  the  nation 
could  not  have  been  redressed  but  by  the  absolute  ruin  of  the 
prince.  Here  is  an  instance  of  their  temper,  their  peace,  and 
charity.  To  what  height  they  carried  themselves  during  the 
reign  of  a  king  of  their  own ;  how  they  crope  into  all  places  of 
trust  and  profit;  how  they  insinuated  into  the  favor  of  the  King, 
and  were  at  first  preferred  to  the  highest  places  in  the  nation; 
how  they  engrossed  the  ministry,  and  above  all,  how  pitifully 
they  managed,  is  too  plain  to  need  any  remarks. 

But  particularly  their  mercy  and  charity,  the  spirit  of  union, 
they  tell  us  so  much  of,  has  been  remarkable  in  Scotland.  If 
any  man  would  see  the  spirit  of  a  Dissenter,  let  him  look  into 
Scotland.  There  they  made  entire  conquest  of  the  Church, 
trampled  down  the  sacred  orders,  and  suppressed  the  Episco- 
pal government,  with  an  absolute,  and,  as  they  suppose,  irre- 
trievable victory,  though  it  is  possible  they  may  find  themselves 
mistaken.  Now  it  would  be  a  very  proper  question  to  ask  their 
impudent  advocate,  the  Observator,  Pray  how  much  mercy 


16  DANIEL  DEFOE 

and  favor  did  the  members  of  the  Episcopal  Church  find  in 
Scotland  from  the  Scotch  Presbyterian  Government?  And  I 
shall  undertake  for  the  Church  of  England  that  the  Dissenters 
shall  still  receive  as  much  here,  though  they  deserve  but  little. 

In  a  small  treatise  of  the  sufferings  of  the  Episcopal  clergy 
in  Scotland,  it  will  appear  what  usage  they  met  with;  how  they 
not  only  lost  their  livings,  but  in  several  places  were  plundered 
and  abused  in  their  persons;  the  ministers  that  could  not  con- 
form turned  out  with  numerous  families  and  no  maintenance, 
and  hardly  charity  enough  left  to  relieve  them  with  a  bit  of 
bread.  And  the  cruelties  of  the  parties  are  innumerable,  and 
not  to  be  attempted  in  this  short  piece. 

And  now,  to  prevent  the  distant  cloud  which  they  perceived 
to  hang  over  their  heads  from  England,  with  a  true  Presby- 
terian policy,  they  put  in  for  a  union  of  nations,  that  England 
might  unite  their  Church  with  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  and  their 
Presbyterian  members  sit  in  our  House  of  Commons,  and  their 
Assembly  of  Scotch  canting  Long-Cloaks  in  our  Convocation. 
What  might  have  been  if  our  fanatic  Whiggish  statesmen  con- 
tinued, God  only  knows;  but  we  hope  we  are  out  of  fear  of  that 
now. 

It  is  alleged  by  some  of  the  faction  —  and  they  began  to 
bully  us  with  it  —  that  if  we  won't  unite  with  them,  they  will 
not  settle  the  crown  with  us  again,  but  when  Her  Majesty  dies, 
will  choose  a  king  for  themselves. 

If  they  won't,  we  must  make  them,  and  it  is  not  the  first  time 
we  have  let  them  know  that  we  are  able.  The  crowns  of  these 
kingdoms  have  not  so  far  disowned  the  right  of  succession,  but 
they  may  retrieve  it  again;  and  if  Scotland  thinks  to  come  off 
from  a  successive  to  an  elective  state  of  government,  England 
has  not  promised  not  to  assist  the  right  heir  and  put  them  into 
possession,  without  any  regard  to  their  ridiculous  settlements. 

These  are  the  gentlemen,  these  their  ways  of  treating  the 
Church,  both  at  home  and  abroad.  Now  let  us  examine  the 
reasons  they  pretend  to  give  why  we  should  be  favorable  to 
them,  why  we  should  continue  and  tolerate  them  among  us. 

First,  they  are  very  numerous,  they  say;  they  are  a  great 
part  of  the  nation,  and  we  cannot  suppress  them. 

To  this  may  be  answered :  — 

i.  They  are  not  so  numerous  as  the  Protestants  in  France, 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  DISSENTERS      17 

and  yet  the  French  King  effectually  cleared  the  nation  of  them 
at  once,  and  we  don't  find  he  misses  them  at  home.  But  I  am 
not  of  the  opinion  they  are  so  numerous  as  is  pretended ;  their 
party  is  more  numerous  than  their  persons,  and  those  mistaken 
people  of  the  Church  who  are  misled  and  deluded  by  their 
wheedling  artifices  to  join  with  them,  make  their  party  the 
greater;  but  those  will  open  their  eyes  when  the  Government 
shall  set  heartily  about  the  work,  and  come  off  from  them,  as 
some  animals  which  they  say  always  desert  a  house  when  it  is 
likely  to  fall. 

2.  The  more  numerous  the  more  dangerous,  and  therefore 
the  more  need  to  suppress  them;  and  God  has  suffered  us  to 
bear  them  as  goads  in  our  sides  for  not  utterly  extinguishing 
them  long  ago. 

3.  If  we  are  to  allow  them  only  because  we  cannot  suppress 
them,  then  it  ought  to  be  tried  whether  we  can  or  no;  and  I  am 
of  opinion  it  is  easy  to  be  done,  and  could  prescribe  ways  and 
means,  if  it  were  proper ;  but  I  doubt  not  the  Government  will 
find  effectual  methods  for  the  rooting  the  contagion  from  the 
face  of  this  land. 

Another  argument  they  use,  which  is  this:  that  it  is  a  time  of 
war,  and  we  have  need  to  unite  against  the  common  enemy. 

We  answer,  this  common  enemy  had  been  no  enemy  if  they 
had  not  made  him  so.  He  was  quiet,  in  peace,  and  no  way  dis- 
turbed or  encroached  upon  us,  and  we  know  no  reason  we  had 
to  quarrel  with  him. 

But  further,  we  make  no  question  but  we  are  able  to  deal 
with  this  common  enemy  without  their  help;  but  why  must 
we  unite  with  them  because  of  the  enemy?  Will  they  go  over 
to  the  enemy  if  we  do  not  prevent  it  by  a  union  with  them? 
We  are  very  well  contented  they  should,  and  make  no  question 
we  shall  be  ready  to  deal  with  them  and  the  common  enemy 
too,  and  better  without  them  than  with  them. 

Besides,  if  we  have  a  common  enemy,  there  is  the  more  need 
to  be  secure  against  our  private  enemies.  If  there  is  one  com- 
mon enemy,  we  have  the  less  need  to  have  an  enemy  in  our 
bowels. 

It  was  a  great  argument  some  people  used  against  suppress- 
ing the  old  money,  that  it  was  a  time  of  war,  and  it  was  too 
great  a  risk  for  the  nation  to  run;  if  we  should  not  master  it,  we 


i8  DANIEL  DEFOE 

should  be  undone.  And  yet  the  sequel  proved  the  hazard  was 
not  so  great  but  it  might  be  mastered,  and  the  success  was  an- 
swerable. The  suppressing  the  Dissenters  is  not  a  harder  work, 
nor  a  work  of  less  necessity  to  the  public.  We  can  never  enjoy 
a  settled,  uninterrupted  union  and  tranquillity  in  this  nation 
till  the  spirit  of  Whiggism,  faction,  and  schism  is  melted  down 
like  the  old  money. 

To  talk  of  the  difficulty  is  to  frighten  ourselves  with  chimeras 
and  notions  of  a  powerful  party,' which  are  indeed  a  party  with- 
out power.  Difficulties  often  appear  greater  at  a  distance  than 
when  they  are  searched  into  with  judgment  and  distinguished 
from  the  vapors  and  shadows  that  attend  them. 

We  are  not  to  be  frightened  with  it ;  this  age  is  wiser  than  that, 
by  all  our  experience  and  theirs  too.  King  Charles  the  First 
had  early  suppressed  this  party  if  he  had  taken  more  deliberate 
measures.  In  short,  it  is  not  worth  arguing  to  talk  of  their  arms. 
Their  Monmouths,  and  ShaftestBirys,  and  Argyles  are  gone; 
their  Dutch  sanctuary  is  at  an  end;  Heaven  has  made  way  for 
their  destruction;  and  if  we  do  not  close  with  the  divine  occa- 
sion, we  are  to  blame  ourselves,  and  may  remember  that  we  had 
once  an  opportunity  to  serve  the  Church  of  England  by  extir- 
pating her  implacable  enemies,  and,  having  let  slip  the  minute 
that  Heaven  presented,  may  experimentally  complain,  Post  est 
occasio  calva.1 

Here  are  some  popular  objections  in  the  way:  — 

As  first,  the  Queen  has  promised  them  to  continue  them  in 
their  tolerated  liberty,  and  has  told  us  she  will  be  a  religious 
observer  of  her  word. 

What  Her  Majesty  will  do  we  cannot  help;  but  what,  as  the 
head  of  the  Church,  she  ought  to  do,  is  another  case.  Her  Ma- 
jesty has  promised  to  protect  and  defend  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, and  if  she  cannot  effectually  do  that  without  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Dissenters,  she  must  of  course  dispense  with  one 
promise  to  comply  with  another.  But  to  answer  this  cavil  more 
effectually:  Her  Majesty  did  never  promise  to  maintain  the  tol- 
eration to  the  destruction  of  the  Church;  but  it  is  upon  supposi- 
tion that  it  may  be  compatible  with  the  well-being  and  safety 
of  the  Church,  which  she  had  declared  she  would  take  especial 
care  of.  Now  if  these  two  interests  clash,  it  is  plain  Her  Ma- 

1  "Opportunity  is  bald-headed  behind  " 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  DISSENTERS     19 

jesty's  intentions  are  to  uphold,  protect,  defend,  and  establish 
the  Church,  and  this  we  conceive  is  impossible. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  said  that  the  Church  is  in  no  immediate 
danger  from  the  Dissenters,  and  therefore  it  is  time  enough. 
But  this  is  a  weak  answer. 

For  first,  if  a  danger  be  real,  the  distance  of  it  is  no  argument 
against,  but  rather  a  spur  to  quicken  us  to  prevention,  lest  it  be 
too  late  hereafter. 

And  secondly,  here  is  the  opportunity,  and  the  only  one  per- 
haps that  ever  the  Church  had,  to  secure  herself  and  destroy 
her  enemies. 

The  representatives  of  the  nation  have  now  an  opportunity; 
the  time  is  come  which  all  good  men  have  wished  for,  that  the 
gentlemen  of  England  may  serve  the  Church  of  England ;  now 
they  are  protected  and  encouraged  by  a  Church  of  England 
Queen. 

"  What  will  you  do  for  your  sister  in  the  day  that  she  shall 
be  spoken  for?  " 

If  ever  you  will  establish  the  best  Christian  Church  in  the 
world;  if  ever  you  will  suppress  the  spirit  of  enthusiasm;  if 
ever  you  will  free  the  nation  from  the  viperous  brood  that  have 
so  long  sucked  the  blood  of  their  mother;  if  ever  you  will 
leave  your  posterity  free  from  faction  and  rebellion,  this  is  the 
time !  This  is  the  time  to  pull  up  this  heretical  weed  of  sedition 
that  has  so  long  disturbed  the  peace  of  our  Church  and  poi- 
soned the  good  corn. 

But,  says  another  hot  and  cold  objector,  this  is  renewing  fire 
and  faggot,  reviving  the  act  De  Heretico  Comburendo;  this  will 
be  cruelty  in  its  nature,  and  barbarous  to  all  the  world. 

I  answer,  it  is  cruelty  to  kill  a  snake  or  a  toad  in  cold  blood, 
but  the  poison  of  their  nature  makes  it  a  charity  to  our  neigh- 
bors to  destroy  those  creatures,  not  for  any  personal  injury  re- 
ceived, but  for  prevention;  not  for  the  evil  they  have  done,  but 
the  evil  they  may  do. 

Serpents,  toads,  vipers,  &c.,  are  noxious  to  the  body,  and 
poison  the  sensitive  life;  these  poison  the  soul,  corrupt  our  pos- 
terity, ensnare  our  children,  destroy  the  vitals  of  our  happiness, 
our  future  felicity,  and  contaminate  the  whole  mass. 

Shall  any  law  be  given  to  such  wild  creatures?  Some  beasts 
are  for  sport,  and  the  huntsmen  give  them  advantages  of 


20  DANIEL  DEFOE 

ground;  but  some  are  knocked  on  the  head  by  all  possible  ways 
of  violence  and  surprise. 

I  do  not  prescribe  fire  and  faggot,  but,  as  Scipio  said  of  Car- 
thage, Delenda  est  Carthago,  they  are  to  be  rooted  out  of  this 
nation,  if  ever  we  will  live  in  peace,  serve  God,  or  enjoy  our  own. 
As  for  the  manner,  I  leave  it  to  those  hands  who  have  a  right  to 
execute  God's  justice  on  the  nation's  and  the  Church's  enemies. 

But  if  we  must  be  frighted  from  this  justice  under  the  spe- 
cious pretences  and  odious  sense  of  cruelty,  nothing  will  be  ef- 
fected :  it  will  be  more  barbarous  to  our  own  children  and  dear 
posterity  when  they  shall  reproach  their  fathers,  as  we  do  ours, 
and  tell  us,  "You  had  an  opportunity  to  root  out  this  cursed 
race  from  the  world,  under  the  favor  and  protection  of  a  true 
English  queen;  and  out  of  your  foolish  pity  you  spared  them, 
because,  forsooth,  you  would  not  be  cruel;  and  now  our  Church 
is  suppressed  and  persecuted,  our  religion  trampled  under  foot, 
our  estates  plundered,  o*ur  persons  imprisoned  and  dragged  to 
jails,  gibbets,  and  scaffolds:  your  sparing  this  Amalekite  race  is 
our  destruction,  your  mercy  to  them  proves  cruelty  to  your 
poor  posterity." 

How  just  will  such  reflections  be  when  our  posterity  shall 
fall  under  the  merciless  clutches  of  this  uncharitable  genera- 
tion, when  our  Church  shall  be  swallowed  up  in  schism,  faction, 
enthusiasm,  and  confusion;  when  our  government  shall  be  de- 
volved upon  foreigners,  and  our  monarchy  dwindled  into  a  re- 
public! 

It  would  be  more  rational  for  us,  if  we  must  spare  this  genera- 
tion, to  summon  our  own  to  a  general  massacre,  and,  as  we 
have  brought  them  into  the  world  free,  send  them  out  so,  and 
not  betray  them  to  destruction  by  our  supine  negligence,  and 
then  cry,  "It  is  mercy." 

Moses  was  a  merciful,  meek  man,  and  yet  with  what  fury  did 
he  run  through  the  camp,  and  cut  the  throats  of  three-and- 
thirty  thousand  of  his  dear  Israelites  that  were  fallen  into  idola- 
try. What  was  the  reason?  It  was  mercy  to  the  rest  to  make 
these  examples,  to  prevent  the  destruction  of  the  whole  army. 

How  many  millions  of  future  souls  we  save  from  infection 
and  Delusion,  if  the  present  race  of  poisoned  spirits  were  purged 
from  the  face  of  the  land! 

It  is  vain  to  trifle  in  this  matter;  the  light  foolish  handling  of 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  DISSENTERS     21 

them  by  mulcts,  fines,  &c.,  —  it  is  their  glory  and  their  advant- 
age. If  the  gallows  instead  of  the  Counter, l  and  the  galleys  in- 
stead of  the  fines,  were  the  reward  of  going  to  a  conventicle,  to 
preach  or  hear,  there  would  not  be  so  many  sufferers.  The  spirit 
of  martyrdom  is  over;  they  that  will  go  to  church  to  be  chosen 
sheriffs  and  mayors  would  go  to  forty  churches  rather  than  be 
hanged. 

If  one  severe  law  were  made  and  punctually  executed,  that 
whoever  was  found  at  a  conventicle  should  be  banished  the 
nation,  and  the  preacher  be  hanged,  we  should  soon  see  an  end 
of  the  tale.  They  would  all  come  to  church,  and  one  age 
would  make  us  all  one  again. 

To  talk  of  five  shillings  a  month  for  not  coming  to  the  sacra- 
ment, and  one  shilling  per  week  for  not  coming  to  church,  — 
this  is  such  a  way  of  converting  people  as  never  was  known; 
this  is  selling  them  a  liberty  to  transgress  for  so  much  money. 
If  it  be  not  a  crime,  why  don't  we  give  them  full  license?  And 
if  it  be,  no  price  ought  to  compound  for  the  committing  it,  for 
that  is  selling  a  liberty  to  people  to  sin  against  God  and  the 
government. 

If  it  be  a  crime  of  the  highest  consequence,  both  against  the 
peace  and  welfare  of  the  nation,  the  glory  of  God,  the  good  of 
the  Church,  and  the  happiness  of  the  soul,  let  us  rank  it  among 
capital  offences,  and  let  it  receive  a  punishment  in  proportion 
to  it. 

We  hang  men  for  trifles,  and  banish  them  for  things  not  worth 
naming;  but  an  offence  against  God  and  the  Church,  against 
the  welfare  of  the  world  and  the  dignity  of  religion,  shall  be 
bought  off  for  five  shillings!  This  is  such  a  shame  to  a  Chris- 
tian government  that  it  is  with  regret  I  transmit  it  to  pos- 
terity. 

If  men  sin  against  God,  affront  His  ordinances,  rebel  against 
His  Church,  and  disobey  the  precepts  of  their  superiors,  let 
them  suffer  as  such  capital  crimes  deserve.  So  will  religion 
flourish,  and  this  divided  nation  be  once  again  united.  .  .  . 

It  is  high  time,  then,  for  the  friends  of  the  Church  of  England 
to  think  of  building  up  and  establishing  her  in  such  a  manner 
that  she  may  be  no  more  invaded  by  foreigners,  nor  divided  by 
factions,  schisms,  and  error. 

1  The  city  prison. 


22  DANIEL  DEFOE 

If  this  could  be  done  by  gentle  and  easy  methods,  I  should  be 
glad;  but  the  wound  is  corroded,  the  vitals  begin  to  mortify,  and 
nothing  but  amputation  of  members  can  complete  the  cure;  all 
the  ways  of  tenderness  and  compassion,  all  persuasive  argu- 
ments, have  been  made  use  of  in  vain. 

The  humor  of  the  Dissenters  has  so  increased  among  the  peo- 
ple, that  they  hold  the  Church  in  defiance,  and  the  house  of 
God  is  an  abomination  among  them;  nay,  they  have  brought 
up  their  posterity  in  such  prepossessed  aversions  to  our  holy 
religion,  that  the  ignorant  mob  think  we  are  all  idolaters  and 
worshipers  of  Baal,  and  account  it  a  sin  to  come  within  the  walls 
of  our  churches. 

The  primitive  Christians  were  not  more  shy  of  a  heathen 
temple  or  of  meat  offered  to  idols,  nor  the  Jews  of  swine's  flesh, 
than  some  of  our  Dissenters  are  of  the  Church,  and  the  divins 
service  solemnized  therein. 

This  obstinacy  must  be  rooted  out  with  the  profession  of  it; 
while  the  generation  are  left  at  liberty  daily  to  affront  God  Al- 
mighty and  dishonor  His  holy  worship,  we  are  wanting  in  our 
duty  to  God  and  our  mother,  the  Church  of  England. 

How  can  we  answer  it  to  God,  to  the  Church,  and  to  our  pos- 
terity, to  leave  them  entangled  with  fanaticism,  error,  and  ob- 
stinacy in  the  bowels  of  the  nation ;  to  leave  them  an  enemy  in 
their  streets,  that  in  time  may  involve  them  in  the  same  crimes, 
and  endanger  the  utter  extirpation  of  religion  in  the  nation? 

What  is  the  difference  betwixt  this  and  being  subjected  to 
the  power  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  from  whence  we  have  re- 
formed? If  one  be  an  extreme  on  one  hand,  and  one  on  another, 
it  is  equally  destructive  to  the  truth  to  have  errors  settled 
among  us,  let  them  be  of  what  nature  they  will. 

Both  are  enemies  of  our  Church  and  of  our  peace;  and  why 
should  it  not  be  as  criminal  to  admit  an  enthusiast  as  a  Jesuit? 
Why  should  the  Papist  with  his  seven  sacraments  be  worse 
than  the  Quaker  with  no  sacraments  at  all?  Why  should  reli- 
gious houses  be  more  intolerable  than  meeting-houses?  Alas, 
the  Church  of  England!  What  with  Popery  on  one  hand,  and 
schismatics  on  the  other,  how  has  she  been  crucified  between 
two  thieves! 

Now  let  us  crucify  the  thieves.  Let  her  foundations  be  estab- 
lished upon  the  destruction  of  her  enemies.  The  doors  of  mercy 


THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL  23 

being  always  open  to  the  returning  part  of  the  deluded  people, 
let  the  obstinate  be  ruled  with  the  rod  of  iron. 

Let  all  true  sons  of  so  holy  and  oppressed  a  mother,  exasper- 
ated by  her  afflictions,  harden  their  hearts  ugainst  those  who 
have  oppressed  her. 

And  may  God  Almighty  put  it  into  the  hearts  of  all  the  friends 
of  truth  to  lift  up  a  standard  against  pride  and  Antichrist,  that 
the  posterity  of  the  sons  of  error  may  be  rooted  out  from  the 
face  of  this  land  for  ever. 


A  TRUE  RELATION  OF  THE  APPARITION  OF 
ONE  MRS.  VEAL 

THE  NEXT  DAY  AFTER  HER  DEATH,  TO  ONE  MRS.  BAR- 
GRAVE,  AT  CANTERBURY,  THE  EIGHTH  OF  SEPTEMBER, 
1705 

1706 

[This  is  one  of  Defoe's  earliest  experiments  in  fiction,  and  illustrates  his 
usual  habit  of  making  his  narrative  writings  so  circumstantial  in  detail 
as  to  assume  the  appearance  of  veracious  chronicle.  It  was  formerly  sup- 
posed that  one  object  of  the  pamphlet  was  to  increase  the  sale  of  Drelin- 
court's  book  on  Death;  this  has  been  disproved,  but  Defoe's  narrative 
was  reprinted  in  some  editions  of  Drelincourt's  work,  as  a  testimony  to 
its  worth.] 

THE   PREFACE 

THIS  relation  is  matter  of  fact,  and  attended  with  such  cir- 
cumstances as  may  induce  any  reasonable  man  to  believe  it. 
It  was  sent  by  a  gentleman,  a  justice  of  peace  at  Maidstone,  in 
Kent,  and  a  very  intelligent  person,  to  his  friend  in  London,  as 
it  is  here  worded;  which  discourse  is  attested  by  a  very  sober 
and  understanding  gentlewoman  and  kinswoman  of  the  said 
gentleman's,  who  lives  in  Canterbury,  within  a  few  doors  of 
the  house  in  which  the  within-named  Mrs.  Bargrave  lives;  who 
believes  his  kinswoman  to  be  of  so  discerning  a  spirit,  as  not 
to  be  put  upon  by  any  fallacy,  and  who  positively  assured 
him  that  the  whole  matter  as  it  is  here  related  and  laid  down 
is  really  true,  and  what  she  herself  had  in  the  same  words, 
as  near  as  may  be,  from  Mrs.  Bargrave's  own  mouth,  who, 
she  knows,  had  no  reason  to  invent  and  publish  such  a  story, 


24  DANIEL  DEFOE 

nor  any  design  to  forge  and  tell  a  lie,  being  a  woman  of  much 
honesty  and  virtue,  and  her  whole  life  a  course,  as  it  were,  of 
piety.  The  use  which  -we  ought  to  make  of  it  is  to  consider 
that  there  is  a  life  to  come  after  this,  and  a  just  God  who  will 
retribute  to  every  one  according  to  the  deeds  done  in  the  body, 
and  therefore  to  reflect  upon  our  past  course  of  life  we  have  led 
in  the  world;  that  our  time  is  short  and  uncertain;  and  that  if 
we  would  escape  the  punishment  of  the  ungodly  and  receive 
the  reward  of  the  righteous,  which  is  the  laying  hold  of  eter- 
nal life,  we  ought,  for  the  time  to  come,  to  return  to  God  by 
a  speedy  repentance,  ceasing  to  do  evil,  and  learning  to  do 
well;  to  seek  after  God  early,  if  haply  He  may  be  found  of  us, 
and  lead  such  lives  for  the  future  as  may  be  well  pleasing  in 
His  sight. 

This  thing  is  so  rare  in  all  its  circumstances,  and  on  so  good 
authority,  that  my  reading  and  conversation  has  not  given  me 
anything  like  it.  It  is  fit  to  gratify  the  mc-st  ingenious  and  se- 
rious inquirer.  Mrs.  Bargrave  is  the  person  to  whom  Mrs.  Veal 
appeared  after  her  death;  she  is  my  intimate  friend,  and  I  can 
avouch  for  her  reputation  for  these  last  fifteen  or  sixteen  years, 
on  my  own  knowledge;  and  I  can  confirm  the  good  character 
she  had  from  her  youth  to  the  time  of  my  acquaintance;  though 
since  this  relation  she  is  calumniated  by  some  people  that  are 
friends  to  the  brother  of  Mrs.  Veal  who  appeared,  who  think 
the  relation  of  this  appearance  to  be  a  reflection,  and  endeavor 
what  they  can  to  blast  Mrs.  Bargrave's  reputation,  and  to  laugh 
the  story  out  of  countenance.  But  by  the  circumstances  there- 
of, and  the  cheerful  disposition  of  Mrs.  Bargrave,  notwithstand- 
ing the  unheard-of  ill-usage  of  a  very  wicked  husband,  there  is 
not  the  least  sign  of  dejection  in  her  face;  nor  did  I  ever  hear  her 
let  fall  a  desponding  or  murmuring  expression ;  nay,  not  when 
actually  under  her  husband's  barbarity,  which  I  have  been 
witness  to,  and  several  other  persons  of  undoubted  reputation. 

Now  you  must  know  Mrs.  Veal  was  a  maiden  gentlewoman 
of  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  for  some  years  last  past  had 
been  troubled  with  fits,  which  were  perceived  coming  on  her  by 
her  going  off  from  her  discourse  very  abruptly  to  some  imperti- 
nence. She  was  maintained  by  an  only  brother,  and  kept  his 
house  in  Dover.  She  was  a  very  pious  woman,  and  her  bro- 


THE  APPARITION  OF    MRS.   VEAL  25 

ther  a  very  sober  man,  to  all  appearance;  but  now  he  does  all  he 
can  to  null  or  quash  the  story.  Mrs.  Veal  was  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  Mrs.  Bargrave  from  her  childhood.  Mrs.  Veal's 
circumstances  were  then  mean;  her  father  did  not  take  care  of 
his  children  as  he  ought,  so  that  they  were  exposed  to  hardships; 
and  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  those  days  had  as  unkind  a  father,  though 
she  wanted  neither  for  food  nor  clothing,  whilst  Mrs.  Veal 
wanted  for  both;  so  that  it  was  in  the  power  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  to  be  very  much  her  friend  in  several  instances,  which 
mightily  endeared  Mrs.  Veal ;  insomuch  that  she  would  often 
say,  "  Mrs.  Bargrave,  you  are  not  only  the  best,  but  the  only 
friend  I  have  in  the  world ;  and  no  circumstance  in  life  shall 
ever  dissolve  my  friendship."  They  would  often  condole  each 
other's  adverse  fortunes,  and  read  together  Drelincourt  Upon 
Death,  and  other  good  books;  and  so,  like  two  Christian  friends, 
they  comforted  each  other  under  their  sorrow. 

Some  time  after,  Mr.  Veal's  friends  got  him  a  place  in  the  cus- 
tom-house at  Dover,  which  occasioned  Mrs.  Veal,  by  little  and 
little,  to  fall  off  from  her  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Bargrave,  though 
there  never  was  any  such  thing  as  a  quarrel;  but  an  indiffer- 
ency  came  on  by  degrees,  till  at  last  Mrs.  Bargrave  had  not  seen 
her  in  two  years  and  a  half;  though  about  a  twelve-month  of  the 
time  Mrs.  Bargrave  had  been  absent  from  Dover,  and  this  last 
half-year  had  been  in  Canterbury  about  two  months  of  the 
time,  dwelling  in  a  house  of  her  own. 

In  this  house,  on  the  8th  of  September  last,  viz.,  1705,  she  was 
sitting  alone,  in  the  forenoon,  thinking  over  her  unfortunate  life, 
and  arguing  herself  into  a  due  resignation  to  Providence,  though 
her  condition  seemed  hard.  "  And,"  said  she,  "  I  have  been  pro- 
vided for  hitherto,  and  doubt  not  but  I  shall  be  still ;  and  am 
well  satisfied  that  my  afflictions  shall  end  when  it  is  most  fit  for 
me";  and  then  she  took  up  her  sewing- work,  which  she  had  no 
sooner  done  but  she  hears  a  knocking  at  the  door.  She  went  to 
see  who  was  there,  and  this  proved  to  be  Mrs.  Veal,  her  old 
friend,  who  was  in  a  riding-habit;  at  that  moment  of  time  the 
clock  struck  twelve  at  noon. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  I  am  surprised  to  see  you, 
you  have  been  so  long  a  stranger";  but  told  her  she  was  glad  to 
see  her,  and  offered  to  salute  her,  which  Mrs.  Veal  complied 
with,  till  their  lips  almost  touched;  and  then  Mrs.  Veal  drew 


26  DANIEL  DEFOE 

her  hand  across  her  own  eyes  and  said,  "  I  am  not  very  well," 
and  so  waived  it.  She  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  she  was  going  a  jour- 
ney, and  had  a  great  mind  to  see  her  first.  "But,"  says  Mrs. 
Bargrave, "  how  came  you  to  take  a  journey  alone?  lam  amazed 
at  it,  because  I  know  you  have  so  fond  a  brother."  "  Oh,"  says 
Mrs.  Veal,  "I  gave  my  brother  the  slip,  and  came  away,  be- 
cause I  had  so  great  a  desire  to  see  you  before  I  took  my  jour- 
ney." So  Mrs.  Bargrave  went  in  with  her  into  another  room 
within  the  first,  and  Mrs.  Veal  set  her  down  in  an  elbow-chair, 
in  which  Mrs.  Bargrave  was  sitting  when  she  heard  Mrs.  Veal 
knock.  Then  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "My  dear  friend,  I  am  come  to 
renew  our  old  friendship  again,  and  beg  your  pardon  for  my 
breach  of  it;  and  if  you  can  forgive  me,  you  are  one  of  the  best 
of  women."  "  Oh,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave, "  don't  mention  such  a 
thing.  I  have  not  had  an  uneasy  thought  about  it;  I  can  easily 
forgive  it."  "  What  did  you  think  of  me  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Veal.  Says 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  I  thought  you  were  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
and  that  prosperity  had  made  you  forget  yourself  and  me." 
Then  Mrs.  Veal  reminded  Mrs.  Bargrave  of  the  many  friendly 
offices  she  did  in  her  former  days,  and  much  of  the  conversa- 
tion they  had  with  each  other  in  the  times  of  their  adversity; 
what  books  they  read,  and  what  comfort  in  particular  they  re- 
ceived from  Drelincourt's  Book  of  Death,  which  was  the  best, 
she  said,  on  that  subject  ever  wrote.  She  also  mentioned  Dr. 
Sherlock,  the  two  Dutch  books  which  were  translated,  wrote 
upon  Death,  and  several  others;  but  Drelincourt,  she  said,  had 
the  clearest  notions  of  death  and  the  future  state  of  any  who 
had  handled  that  subject.  Then  she  asked  Mrs.  Bargrave  whe- 
ther she  had  Drelincourt.  She  said,  "Yes."  Says  Mrs.  Veal, 
"  Fetch  it."  And  so  Mrs.  Bargrave  goes  upstairs  and  brings  it 
down.  Says  Mrs.  Veal,  "  Dear  Mrs.  Bargrave,  if  the  eyes  of  our 
faith  were  as  open  as  the  eyes  of  our  body,  we  should  see  num- 
bers of  angels  about  us  for  our  guard.  The  notions  we  have  of 
heaven  now  are  nothing  like  what  it  is,  as  Drelincourt  says. 
Therefore  be  comforted  under  your  afflictions,  and  believe  that 
the  Almighty  has  a  particular  regard  to  you,  and  that  your 
afflictions  are  marks  of  God's  favor;  and  when  they  have  done 
the  business  they  are  sent  for,  they  shall  be  removed  from  you. 
And  believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  believe  what  I  say  to  you,  one 
minute  of  future  happiness  will  infinitely  reward  you  for  all 


THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL  27 

your  sufferings;  for  I  can  never  believe"  (and  claps  her  hand 
upon  her  knee  with  great  earnestness,  which  indeed  ran 
through  most  of  her  discourse)  "that  ever  God  will  suffer  you 
to  spend  all  your  days  in  this  afflicted  state;  but  be  assured 
that  your  afflictions  shall  leave  you,  or  you  them,  in  a  short 
time."  She  spake  in  that  pathetical  and  heavenly  manner 
that  Mrs.  Bargrave  wept  several  times,  she  was  so  deeply 
affected  with  it. 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  mentioned  Dr.  Horneck's  Ascetic,  at  the  end 
of  which  he  gives  an  account  of  the  lives  of  the  primitive  Chris- 
tians. Their  pattern  she  recommended  to  our  imitation,  and 
said  their  conversation  was  not  like  this  of  our  age;  "for  now," 
says  she,  "there  is  nothing  but  frothy,  vain  discourse,  which  is 
far  different  from  theirs.  Theirs  was  to  edification,  and  to 
build  one  another  up  in  faith,  so  that  they  were  not  as  we  are, 
nor  are  we  as  they  were;  but,"  said  she,  "we  might  do  as 
they  did.  There  was  a  hearty  friendship  among  them;  but 
where  is  it  now  to  be  found?  "  Says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  It  is  hard 
indeed  to  find  a  true  friend  in  these  days."  Says  Mrs.  Veal, 
"Mr.  Norris  has  a  fine  copy  of  verses,  called  Friendship  in 
Perfection,  which  I  wonderfully  admire.  Have  you  seen  the 
book?"  says  Mrs.  Veal.  "No,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "but  I 
have  the  verses  of  my  own  writing  out."  "Have  you?"  says 
Mrs.  Veal;  "then  fetch  them."  Which  she  did  from  above- 
stairs,  and  offered  them  to  Mrs.  Veal  to  read,  who  refused,  and 
waived  the  thing,  saying  holding  down  her  head  would  make 
it  ache;  and  then  desired  Mrs.  Bargrave  to  read  them  to  her, 
which  she  did.  As  they  were  admiring  Friendship  Mrs.  Veal 
said,  "  Dear  Mrs.  Bargrave,  I  shall  love  you  for  ever."  In  these 
verses  there  is  twice  used  the  word  Elysian.  "Ah!"  says  Mrs. 
Veal,  "these  poets  have  such  names  for  heaven!"  She  would 
often  draw  her  hand  across  her  own  eyes  and  say,  "  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave,  do  not  you  think  I  am  mightily  impaired  by  my  fits?" 
"No,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I  think  you  look  as  well  as  ever  I 
knew  you." 

After  all  this  discourse,  which  the  apparition  put  in  much 
finer  words  than  Mrs.  Bargrave  said  she  could  pretend  to,  and 
as  much  more  than  she  can  remember  (for  it  cannot  be  thought 
that  an  hour  and  three-quarters'  conversation  could  be  re- 
tained, though  the  main  of  it  she  thinks  she  does),  she  said  to 


28  DANIEL  DEFOE 

Mrs.  Bargrave  she  would  have  her  write  a  letter  to  her  brother, 
and  tell  him  she  would  have  him  give  rings  to  such  and  such, 
and  that  there  was  a  purse  of  gold  in  her  cabinet,  and  that  she 
would  have  two  broad  pieces  given  to  her  cousin  Watson. 

Talking  at  this  rate,  Mrs.  Bargrave  thought  that  a  fit  was 
coming  upon  her,  and  so  placed  herself  in  a  chair  just  before 
her  knees,  to  keep  her  from  falling  to  the  ground,  if  her  fits 
should  occasion  it  (for  the  elbow-chair,  she  thought,  would 
keep  her  from  falling  on  either  side);  and  to  divert  Mrs. 
Veal,  as  she  thought,  took  hold  of  her  gown-sleeve  several 
times,  and  commended  it.  Mrs.  Veal  told  her  it  was  a  scoured 
silk,  and  newly  made  up.  But  for  all  this,  Mrs.  Veal  persisted 
in  her  request,  and  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  that  she  must  not 
deny  her,  and  she  would  have  her  tell  her  brother  all  their 
conversation  when  she  had  an  opportunity.  "  Dear  Mrs. 
Veal,"  said  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  this  seems  so  impertinent  that 
I  cannot  tell  how  to  comply  with  it;  and  what  a  mortify- 
ing story  will  our  conversation  be  to  a  young  gentleman!" 
"Wen,"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "I  must  not  be  denied."  "Why," 
says  Mrs.  Bargrave, "  it  is  much  better,  methinks,  to  do  it  your- 
self." *'  No,"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "  though  it  seems  impertinent  to 
you  now,  you  will  see  more  reason  for  it  hereafter."  Mrs. 
Bargrave  then,  to  satisfy  her  importunity,  was  going  to  fetch 
a  pen  and  ink,  but  Mrs.  Veal  said, "  Let  it  alone  now,  and  do  it 
when  I  am  gone;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  do  it";  which  was 
one  of  the  last  things  she  enjoined  her  at  parting.  And  so 
she  promised  her. 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  asked  for  Mrs.  Bargrave's  daughter.  She 
said  she  was  not  at  home.  "  But  if  you  have  a  mind  to  see  her," 
says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I'll  send  for  her."  "Do,"  says  Mrs. 
Veal.  On  which  she  left  her,  and  went  to  a  neighbor's  to  send  for 
her;  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Bargrave  was  returning,  Mrs.  Veal 
was  got  without  the  door  in  to  the  street,  in  the  face  of  the  beast- 
market,  on  a  Saturday  (which  is  market-day),  and  stood  ready 
to  part.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Bargrave  came  to  her,  she  asked  her 
why  she  was  in  such  haste.  She  said  she  must  be  going,  though 
perhaps  she  might  not  go  her  journey  until  Monday;  and  told 
Mrs.  Bargrave  she  hoped  she  should  see  her  again  at  her  cousin 
Watson's  before  she  went  whither  she  was  going.  Then  she 
said  she  would  take  her  leave  of  her,  and  walked  from  Mrs.  Bar- 


THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL  29 

grave  in  her  view,  till  a  turning  interrupted  the  sight  of  her, 
which  was  three-quarters  after  one  in  the  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Veal  died  the  yth  of  September,  at  twelve  o'clock  at 
noon,  of  her  fits,  and  had  not  above  four  hours'  sense  before 
death,  in  which  time  she  received  the  sacrament.  The  next  day 
after  Mrs.  Veal's  appearing,  being  Sunday,  Mrs.  Bargrave  was 
so  mightily  indisposed  with  a  cold  and  a  sore  throat,  that  she 
could  not  go  out  that  day;  but  on  Monday  morning  she  sent  a 
person  to  Captain  Watson's  to  know  if  Mrs.  Veal  was  there. 
They  wondered  at  Mrs.  Bargrave's  inquiry,  and  sent  her  word 
that  she  was  not  there,  nor  was  expected.  At  this  answer,  Mrs. 
Bargrave  told  the  maid  she  had  certainly  mistook  the  name  or 
made  some  blunder.  And  though  she  was  ill,  she  put  on  her 
hood,  and  went  herself  to  Captain  Watson's,  though  she  knew 
none  of  the  family,  to  see  if  Mrs.  Veal  was  there  or  not.  They 
said  they  wondered  at  her  asking,  for  that  she  had  not  been  in 
town;  they  were  sure,  if  she  had,  she  would  have  been  there. 
Says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  I  am  sure  she  was  with  me  on  Saturday 
almost  two  hours."  They  said  it  was  impossible;  for  they  must 
have  seen  her,  if  she  had.  In  comes  Captain  Watson  while  they 
are  in  dispute,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Veal  was  certainly  dead,  and 
her  escutcheons  were  making.  This  strangely  surprised  Mrs. 
Bargrave,  when  she  sent  to  the  person  immediately  who  had 
the  care  of  them,  and  found  it  true.  Then  she  related  the  whole 
story  to  Captain  Watson's  family,  and  what  gown  she  had  on, 
and  how  striped,  and  that  Mrs.  Veal  told  her  it  was  scoured. 
Then  Mrs.  Watson  cried  out,  "You  have  seen  her  indeed,  for 
none  knew  but  Mrs.  Veal  and  myself  that  the  gown  was 
scoured."  And  Mrs.  Watson  owned  that  she  described  the 
gown  exactly;  "for,"  said  she,  "I  helped  her  to  make  it  up." 
This  Mrs.  Watson  blazed  all  about  the  town,  and  avouched  the 
demonstration  of  the  truth  of  Mrs.  Bargrave's  seeing  Mrs. 
Veal's  apparition;  and  Captain  Watson  carried  two  gentlemen 
immediately  to  Mrs.  Bargrave's  house  to  hear  the  relation  from 
her  own  mouth.  And  when  it  spread  so  fast  that  gentlemen  and 
persons  of  quality,  the  judicious  and  skeptical  part  of  the  world, 
flocked  in  upon  her,  it  at  last  became  such  a  task  that  she  was 
forced  to  go  out  of  the  way;  for  they  were  in  general  extremely 
satisfied  of  the  truth  of  the  thing,  and  plainly  saw  that  Mrs. 
Bargrave  was  no  hypochondriac,  for  she  always  appears  with 


30  DANIEL  DEFOE 

such  a  cheerful  air  and  pleasing  mien,  that  she  has  gained  the 
favor  and  esteem  of  all  the  gentry,  and  it  is  thought  a  great 
favor  if  they  can  but  get  the  relation' from  her  own  mouth.  I 
should  have  told  you  before  that  Mrs.  Veal  told  Mrs.  Bargrave 
that  her  sister  and  brother-in-law  were  just  come  down  from 
London  to  see  her.  Says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "How  came  you  to 
order  matters  so  strangely?"  "  It  could  not  be  helped,"  says 
Mrs.  Veal.  And  her  brother  and  sister  did  come  to  see  her,  and 
entered  the  town  of  Dover  just  as  Mrs.  Veal  was  expiring.  Mrs. 
Bargrave  asked  her  whether  she  would  drink  some  tea.  Says 
Mrs.  Veal,  "I  do  not  care  if  I  do;  but  I'll  warrant  this  mad 
fellow"  (meaning  Mrs.  Bargrave's  husband)  "has  broke  all 
your  trinkets."  "But,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I  '11  get  some- 
thing to  drink  in.  for  all  that."  But  Mrs.  Veal  waived  it,  and 
said.  "  It  is  no  matter;  let  it  alone";  and  so  it  passed. 

All  the  time  I  sat  with  Mrs.  Bargrave,  which  was  some  hours, 
she  recollected  fresh  sayings  of  Mrs.  Veal.  And  one  material 
thing  more  she  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  —  that  old  Mr.  Breton  al- 
lowed Mrs.  Veal  ten  pounds  a  year,  which  was  a  secret,  and  un- 
known to  Mrs.  Bargrave  till  Mrs.  Veal  told  it  her.  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  never  varies  in  her  story,  which  puzzles  those  who  doubt 
of  the  truth  or  are  unwilling  to  believe  it.  A  servant  in  the 
neighbor's  yard  adjoining  to  Mrs.  Bargrave's  house  heard  her 
talking  to  somebody  an  hour  of  the  time  Mrs.  Veal  was  with  her. 
Mrs.  Bargrave  went  out  to  her  next  neighbor's  the  very  mo- 
ment she  parted  with  Mrs.  Veal,  and  told  her  what  ravishing 
conversation  she  had  with  an  old  friend,  and  told  the  whole  of 
it.  Drelincourt's  Book  of  Death  is,  since  this  happened,  bought 
up  strangely.  And  it  is  to  be  observed  that,  notwithstanding 
all  the  trouble  and  fatigue  Mrs.  Bargrave  has  undergone  upon 
this  account,  she  never  took  the  value  of  a  farthing,  nor  suffered 
her  daughter  to  take  anything  of  anybody,  and  therefore  can 
have  no  interest  in  telling  the  story. 

But  Mr.  Veal  does  what  he  can  to  stifle  the  matter,  and  said 
he  would  see  Mrs.  Bargrave;  but  yet  it  is  certain  matter  of  fact 
that  he  has  been  at  Captain  Watson's  since  the  death  of  his 
sister,  and  yet  never  went  near  Mrs.  Bargrave;  and  some  of  his 
friends  report  her  to  be  a  liar,  and  that  she  knew  of  Mr.  Bre- 
ton's ten  pounds  a  year.  But  the  person  who  pretends  to  say 
so  has  the  reputation  of  a  notorious  liar  among  persons  whom  I 


THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL  31 

know  to  be  of  undoubted  credit.  Now,  Mr.  Veal  is  more  of  a 
gentleman  than  to  say  she  lies,  but  says  a  bad  husband  has 
crazed  her.  But  she  needs  only  present  herself  and  it  will  ef- 
fectually confute  that  pretence.  Mr.  Veal  says  he  asked  his  sis- 
ter on  her  death-bed  whether  she  had  a  mind  to  dispose  of  any- 
thing, and  she  said  no.  Now,  the  things  which  Mrs.  Veal's  ap- 
parition would  have  disposed  of  were  so  trifling,  and  nothing  of 
justice  aimed  at  in  their  disposal,  that  the  design  of  it  appears 
to  me  to  be  only  in  order  to  make  Mrs.  Bargrave  so  to  demon- 
strate the  truth  of  her  appearance,  as  to  satisfy  the  world  of  the 
reality  thereof  as  to  what  she  had  seen  and  heard,  and  to  secure 
her  reputation  among  the  reasonable  and  understanding  part 
of  mankind.  And  then  again  Mr.  Veal  owns  that  there  was  a 
purse  of  gold;  but  it  was  not  found  in  her  cabinet,  but  in  a  comb- 
box.  This  looks  improbable;  for  that  Mrs.  Watson  owned  that 
Mrs.  Veal  was  so  very  careful  of  the  key  of  the  cabinet  that  she 
would  trust  nobody  with  it;  and  if  so.  no  doubt  she  would  not 
trust  her  gold  out  of  it-  And  Mrs.  Veal's  often  drawing  her 
hand  over  her  eyes,  and  asking  Mrs.  Bargrave  whether  her  fits 
had  not  impaired  her,  looks  to  me  as  if  she  did  it  on  purpose  to 
remind  Mrs.  Bargrave  of  her  fits,  to  prepare  her  not  to  think  it 
strange  that  she  should  put  her  upon  writing  to  her  brother  to 
dispose  of  rings  and  gold,  which  looks  so  much  like  a  dying 
person's  request;  and  it  took  accordingly  with  Mrs.  Bargrave, 
as  the  effects  of  her  fits  coming  upon  her;  and  was  one  of  the 
many  instances  of  her  wonderful  love  to  her  and  care  of  her  that 
she  should  not  be  affrighted,  which  indeed  appears  in  her  whole 
management,  particularly  in  her  coming  to  her  in  the  daytime, 
waiving  the  salutation,  and  when  she  was  alone,  and  then  the 
manner  of  her  parting,  to  prevent  a  second  attempt  to  salute 
her. 

Xow.  why  Mr.  Veal  should  think  this  relation  a  reflection,  as 
it  is  plain  he  does  by  his  endeavoring  to  stifle  it,  I  can't  im- 
agine, because  the  generality  believe  her  to  be  a  good  spirit,  her 
discourse  was  so  heavenly.  Her  two  great  errands  were  to  com- 
fort Mrs.  Bargrave  in  her  affliction,  and  to  ask  her  forgiveness 
for  the  breach  of  friendship,  and  with  a  pious  discourse  to  en- 
courage her.  So  that  after  all  to  suppose  that  Mrs.  Bargrave 
could  hatch  such  an  invention  as  this  from  Friday  noon  to  Sat- 
urday noon,  supposing  that  she  knew  of  Mis.  Veal's  death  the 


32  DANIEL  DEFOE 

very  first  moment,  without  jumbling  circumstances,  and  with- 
out any  interest  too,  she  must  be  more  witty,  fortunate,  and 
wicked  too,  than  any  indifferent  person,  I  dare  say,  will  allow. 
I  asked  Mrs.  Bargrave  several  times  if  she  was  sure  she  felt  the 
gown.  She  answered  modestly,  "  If  my  senses  are  to  be  relied 
on,  I  am  sure  of  it."  I  asked  her  if  she  heard  a  sound  when  she 
clapped  her  hand  upon  her  knee.  She  said  she  did  not  remember 
she  did,  and  she  said, "  She  appeared  to  be  as  much  a  substance 
as  I  did,  who  talked  with  her.  And  I  may,"  said  she, "  be  as  soon 
persuaded  that  your  apparition  is  talking  to  me  now  as  that  I 
did  not  really  see  her;  for  I  was  under  no  manner  of  fear,  and 
received  her  as  a  friend,  and  parted  with  her  as  such.  I  would 
not,"  says  she,  "  give  one  farthing  to  make  any  one  believe  it;  I 
have  no  interest  in  it.  Nothing  but  trouble  is  entailed  upon  me 
for  a  long  time,  for  aught  I  know;  and  had  it  not  come  to  light 
by  accident,  it  would  never  have  been  made  public."  But  now 
she  says  she  will  make  her  own  private  use  of  it,  and  keep  her- 
self out  of  the  way  as  much  as  she  can;  and  so  she  has  done 
since.  She  says  she  had  a  gentleman  who  came  thirty  miles  to 
her  to  hear  the  relation,  and  that  she  had  told  it  to  a  room  full 
of  people  at  a  time.  Several  particular  gentlemen  have  had  the 
story  from  Mrs.  Bargrave's  own  mouth. 

This  thing  has  very  much  affected  me,  and  I  am  as  well  satis- 
fied as  I  am  of  the  best  grounded  matter  of  fact.  And  why  we 
should  dispute  matter  of  fact  because  we  cannot  solve  things 
of  which  we  have  no  certain  or  demonstrative  notions,  seems 
strange  to  me.  Mrs.  Bargrave's  authority  and  sincerity  alone 
would  have  been  undoubted  in  any  other  case. 


A  SEASONABLE  WARNING  AND   CAUTION 

AGAINST  THE   INSINUATIONS   OF   PAPISTS   AND  JACOBITES 
IN   FAVOR   OF   THE    PRETENDER 

1712 

[The  pamphlets  represented  by  this  and  the  following  extract  were 
written  at  a  time  when  it  was  feared  that  the  succession  of  the  House  of 
Hanover  to  the  throne  was  threatened,  in  the  event  of  Queen  Anne's 
death,  by  the  loyalty  of  the  Jacobite  party  to  the  House  of  Stuart.  The 
Seasonable  Warning  and  Caution  was  a  direct  appeal,  —  though  purport- 


A  SEASONABLE  WARNING  33 

ing  to  be  "a  letter  from  an  Englishman  at  the  Court  of  Hanover,"  —  and 
its  conclusion  is  one  of  the  best  examples  of  Defoe 's  garrulous  eloquence. 
What  if  the  Pretender  should  Come,  on  the  other  hand,  exemplifies  his  bril- 
liant ironical  method;  it  is  one  of  two  tracts  whose  titles  were  intended 
to  delude  the  unsuspecting  Jacobite  reader,  the  other  being  called  Reasons 
against  the  Succession  of  the  House  of  Hanover.] 

THE   CONCLUSION 

CONSIDER,  then,  honest  countrymen  and  Protestants,  what 
you  are  doing;  look  on  your  families;  consider  your  innocent 
children,  who  you  are  going  to  give  up  to  be  bred  in  abominable 
superstition  and  idolatry;  look  on  your  dear  country ,  which  you 
are  preparing  to  make  the  sea  of  war,  blood,  and  confusion;  look 
on  your  neighbors,  who,  while  they  are  resisting  this  inunda- 
tion, —  for  you  may  be  assured  honest  men  will  resist  it  to  the 
last,  —  you  are  to  fight  with,  whose  throats  you  must  cut,  and 
in  whose  blood  you  must  dip  your  hands;  and  lastly,  consider 
yourselves;  how  free,  how  quiet,  how  in  peace,  plenty  and  in 
Protestant  liberty  you  live,  but  are  with  your  own  hands  pulling 
down  upon  you,  so  far  as  you  entertain  thoughts  of  the  Pre- 
tender, the  walls  of  your  own  security,  viz.,  the  constitution, 
and  making  way  for  your  French  popish  enemies  to  enter;  to 
whom  your  religion,  your  liberties,  your  estates,  your  families, 
and  your  posterity,  shall  be  made  a  sacrifice,  and  this  flourish- 
ing nation  be  entirely  ruined. 

In  the  last  place,  all  that  have  any  concern  left  for  the  good 
of  their  country,  and  for  the  preserving  the  Protestant  religion, 
will  remember  how  much  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  people  of  Brit- 
ain for  ever  to  discourage  all  the  attempts  to  be  made  in  favor 
of  these  popish  enemies,  and  to  overthrow  them  in  the  execu- 
tion; and  it  is  on  this  foundation  that  this  paper  is  made  public. 
The  late  letter  from  Douay,  written  by  some  of  that  side,  who 
very  well  understood  the  Pretender's  true  interest,  acknow- 
ledges this,  and  that  if  the  people  of  England  could  not  be 
wheedled  and  deluded  into  the  design,  it  was  never  to  be  done 
by  force. 

And  is  this  your  case,  Britons!  Will  you  be  ruined  by  a  peo- 
ple whom  you  ought  to  despise?  Have  they  not  been  twenty 
years  trying  your  strength,  till  they  find  it  impossible  for  them 
to  master  you?  And  are  they  brought  to  such  a  condition  as  to 
use  all  their  arts  and  shifts  to  bring  on  a  peace?  and  will  you  be 


34  DANIEL  DEFOE 

brought  now,  in  cool  thoughts,  to  do  that  yourselves  which  you 
would  never  let  them  do,  and  which,  without  your  most  stupid 
negligence  of  yourselves,  they  could  never  do? 

For  this  reason,  I  say,  these  lines  are  written,  and  this  makes 
them  just,  and  the  argument  rational.  If  I  were  to  move  you 
to  what  was  not  in  your  power,  I  should  easily  be  answered 
by  being  told  you  could  not  do  it;  that  you  were  not  able,  and 
the  like;  but  is  it  not  evident  that  the  unanimous  appearance 
of  the  people  of  Great  Britain  against  the  Pretender  would  at 
once  render  all  the  party  desperate,  and  make  them  look  upon 
the  design  as  utterly  impracticable?  As  their  only  hope  is  in 
the  breaches  they  are  making  in  your  resolutions,  so  if  they 
should  see  they  gain  no  ground  there,  they  would  despair,  and 
give  it  over. 

It  would  not  be  worth  notice  to  inquire  who  are  and  who  are 
not  for  the  Pretender;  the  invidious  search  into  the  conduct  of 
great  men,  ministers  of  state  and  government,  would  be  labor 
lost:  no  ministry  will  ever  be  for  the  Pretender,  if  they  once 
may  but  be  convinced  that  the  people  are  steady;  that  he  gets 
no  ground  in  the  country;  that  the  aversions  of  the  common 
people  to  his  person  and  his  government  are  not  to  be  over- 
come: but  if  you,  the  good  people  of  England,  slacken  your 
hands;  if  you  give  up  the  cause;  if  you  abate  your  zeal  for  your 
own  liberties,  and  for  the  Protestant  religion;  if  you  fall  in  with 
Popery  and  a  French  Pretender;  if  you  forget  the  Revolution, 
and  King  William,  what  can  you  expect?  who  can  stand  by  you 
then?  Who  can  save  them  that  will  destroy  themselves? 

The  work  is  before  you;  your  deliverance,  your  safety  is  in 
your  own  hands,  and  therefore  these  things  are  now  written. 
None  can  give  you  up;  none  can  betray  you  but  yourselves;  and 
if  you  could  see  your  own  happiness,  it  is  entirely  in  your  power, 
by  unanimous,  steady  adhering  to  your  old  principles,  to  se- 
cure your  peace  for  ever.  O  Jerusalem!  Jerusalem! 


IF  THE  PRETENDER  SHOULD  COME 


AXD  WHAT  IF  THE  PRETENDER  SHOULD  COME? 

OX    SOME    CONSIDERATIONS   OF   THE    ADVANTAGES    AXD 
REAL  COX  SEQUENCES  OP  THE  PBETEXDEJt's    POSSESS- 


1713 

...  TfeAT  then  a  case  so  popular,  and  of  soi 

r-tllt    Lr    LLL:   ;.-     7^:     Li:    VII.:    :  -  11    L..t    -...7OI  'I:    L:    ILt 

r_-t  ii  lit  LLLLI  —  1.  L_,I~   L.M  t"vt-iLi...y  ,;-  -  ::.,  L~_Y: 

ir.:  ri-i'i  iiL.r.ri  ..tut-:  ::'  lit  liiii-  ."i-.tJ  1:7  -:  ~.L-.;     L.-,i  ^: 

easy  to  be  seen,  as  IBB  fidendk  allege;  why  dboold  aot  the  good 

"•r".".  .t  ::  Zr.iiii.  :-t  rLi.it  t:i-".    111 


:v  ht-rlir  ~i:  ill:  it--.-I  ~_Ly  :„-.;  :•-  -,; 
bbck  as  he  is  painted;  and  that  fne  noise  made  of  the  Preten- 
it?  11  1  lit  :r.ri7:  ..::_:.  r-  :,i_'i  izil:  :;n_:i  LI  i  :::._:  bdbD^ 

'ta.T) 

tlirj  ir  iillj  nr,  ind  iftir  ill  Ihil  hn  firrn  f  iM,  if  if  ThnaH  ip 

7-r:l-  LL^7  LL7   LLVLLLLZe:  1C  ibt  I  -.- 

r77:_:7:  :.:  _.-   LLI  lit  LL7.r7 


ii  -~  •-  ~    vtr    LL-tn         LL  ii  LLt'ir      ~~       ~  -^-  ~"'  ___  ci_  "i^- 
over,  ^dio,  **aBMCa^c  neater  as  to  fM'MM^  appear  against  the 

?Tt:t-  it-:  i  r_y  :-fi:i  ..^t  i-.ty  irt  rut  n    :>t_fvt  rcri'.rt  LI  i 

l.t~  1.7   IL_-_rf    if   "-ill   rL.L_.   :«tIL_  ILt  ILldll.  1L   liL^t   II  L_r 

i!Lz..-.   r-iLLrril.tr;    ^ivfr--  7  rt-r.  i  i  T..I  -  7  :   i-r-ir:yii.r  ::'  :-_r 
i-.-7-i_i   LL:  :t  ••:-..-_;.  r  :.:i.;.i-    L-  lin  ML:.  LI.  .  ..r  sir.'.:  :.e: 
the  Razor  *  has  been  Sabering  to  saggest),  vnin  naany  other 

1  J;  _  r  ITr    ~  L_  I  L    ~'t    :  L.I  ____    tLlt:!1   .'       .     tIT7'I'r<t    II      •  I  _    L:    ILt  •      It- 


7:  :.fr_i   Lit-    -LL  LLI:-  i-r.  7..iy_i:  -^-  ifrl 
,  as  the  bogjbear  of  the  pa 

LI--     I:  ir  -.-:  tMiti:  HI:  nt  :'7:_:  .:  iL_r  -_r- 

..--'.  .   .      .    ^         ..       .  -T  .    ...        .  .._ 

,--.--.  ,         -  ,  — 

— ._  ^        •  -  ^- 

lit  ?rfit'!it:     7i7  ~-i_iLr  Hi  :7:_:-;-.:  -L.   7-L 
ir  rti  itrt-i  1 1  m_  LI  :  _t  11   _.r    L:  i  -:  :: .  .  IL  v---.n: 
:-t  .L  ii    LLI:   i-it  ::. t  :..Li-.t  ::  S'i:^.Lit-ie:   vt  ir. 
Li_jirti.  •?•.!!  .1    _7  in.;.   _L  :i_r    111:  v. 

I  •:•    .,:    .     .V:          ..-!._ 


36  DANIEL  DEFOE    . 

France,  being  a  professed  enemy  to  the  peace  and  liberty  of 
Great  Britain,  will  most  certainly,  as  soon  as  he  can  a  little  re- 
cover himself,  exercise  all  that  formidable  power  to  put  the  Pre- 
tender upon  us,  and  not  only  to  place  him  upon  the  throne  of 
Great  Britain,  but  to  maintain  and  hold  him  up  in  it,  against 
all  the  opposition,  either  of  the  people  of  Britain  or  the  confed- 
erate princes  leagued  with  the  Elector  of  Hanover,  who  are  in 
the  interest  of  his  claim  or  of  his  party.  Now  it  is  evident  that 
upon  a  peaceable  admitting  this  person,  whom  they  call  the  Pre- 
tender, to  receive  and  enjoy  the  crpwn  here,  all  that  formidable 
power  becomes  your  friend,  and  the  being  so  must  necessarily 
take  off  from  it  everything  that  is  called  terrible.  ... 

How  strange  is  it  that  none  of  our  people  have  yet  thought 
of  this  way  of  securing  their  native  country  from  the  insults  of 
France !  Were  but  the  Pretender  once  received  as  our  king,  we 
have  no  more  disputes  with  the  King  of  France,  he  has  no  pre^ 
tence  to  invade  or  disturb  us;  what  a  quiet  world  would  it  be 
with  us  in  such  a  case,  when  the  greatest  monarch  in  the  uni- 
verse should  be  our  fast  friend,  and  be  in  our  interest  to  prevent 
any  of  the  inconveniences  which  might  happen  to  us  from  the 
disgust  of  other  neighbors,  who  maybe  dissatisfied  with  us  upon 
other  accounts.  As  to  the  terrible  things  which  some  people 
fright  us  and  themselves  with,  from  the  influence  which  French 
councils  may  have  upon  us,  and  of  French  methods  of  govern- 
ment being  introduced  among  us,  these  we  ought  to  esteem  only 
clamors  and  noise,  raised  by  a  party  to  amuse  and  affright  us. 
For  pray  let  us  inquire  a  little  into  them,  and  see  if  there  be  any 
reason  for  us  to  be  so  terrified  at  them ;  suppose  they  were  really 
what  is  alleged,  which  we  hope  they  are  not;  for  example,  the 
absolute  dominion  of  the  King  of  France  over  his  subjects  is 
such,  say  our  people,  as  makes  them  miserable;  well,  but  let  us 
examine  then:  are  we  not  already  miserable  for  want  of  this 
absolute  dominion?  Are  we  not  miserably  divided?  Is  not  our 
government  miserably  weak?  Are  we  not  miserably  subjected 
to  the  rabbles  and  mob?  Nay,  is  not  the  very  crown  mobbed 
here  every  now  and  then,  into  whatever  our  sovereign  lord  the 
people  demand?  Whereas,  on  the  contrary,  we  see  France  en- 
tirely united  as  one  man;  no  virulent  scribblers  there  dare  af- 
front the  government;  no  impertinent  P ments  there  dis- 
turb the  monarch  with  their  addresses  and  representations;  no 


IF  THE  PRETENDER  SHOULD  COME    37 

superiority  of  laws  restrain  the  administration ;  no  insolent  law- 
yers talk  of  the  sacred  constitution,  in  opposition  to  the  more 
sacred  prerogative;  but  all  with  harmony  and  general  consent 
agree  to  support  the  majesty  of  their  prince,  and  with  their  lives 
and  fortunes;  not  in  complimenting  sham  addresses  only,  but 
in  reality  and  effectually,  support  the  glory  of  their  great  mon- 
arch. In  doing  this  they  are  all  united  together  so  firmly,  as  if 
they  had  but  one  heart  and  one  mind,  and  that  the  king  was 
the  soul  of  the  nation.  What  if  they  are  what  we  foolishly  call 
slaves  to  the  absolute  will  of  their  prince?  That  slavery  to 
them  is  mere  liberty.  They  entertain  no  notion  of  that  foolish 
liberty  which  we  make  so  much  noise  about,  nor  have  they  any 
occasion  of  it,  or  any  use  for  it  if  they  had  it.  They  are  as  in- 
dustrious in  trade,  as  vigorous  in  pursuit  of  their  affairs,  go  on 
with  as  much  courage,  and  are  as  well  satisfied  when  they  have 
wrought  hard  twenty  or  thirty  years  to  get  a  little  money  for 
the  king  to  take  away,  as  we  are  to  get  it  for  our  wives  and  chil- 
dren ;  and  as  they  plant  vines  and  plough  lands,  that  the  king 
and  his  great  men  may  eat  the  fruit  thereof,  they  think  it  as 
great  a  felicity  as  if  they  eat  it  themselves.  ...  Is  it  not  ap- 
parent that,  under  all  the  oppressions  they  talk  so  much  of,  the 
French  are  the  nation  the  most  improved  and  increased  in 
manufactures,  in  navigation,  in  commerce,  within  these  fifty 
years,  of  any  nation  in  the  world?  And  here  we  pretend  liberty, 
property,  constitutions,  rights  of  subjects,  and  such  stuff  as 
that,  and  with  all  these  fine  gewgaws,  which  we  pretend  propa- 
gate trade  and  increase  the  wealth  of  the  nation,  we  are  every 
day  declining,  and  become  poor.  How  long  will  this  nation  be 
blinded  by  their  own  foolish  customs?  And  when  will  they  learn 
to  know  that  the  absolute  government  of  a  virtuous  prince, 
who  makes  the  good  of  his  people  his  ultimate  end,  and  es- 
teems their  prosperity  his  glory,  is  the  best  and  most  godlike 
government  in  the  world? 

Let  us  then  be  no  more  rendered  uneasy  with  the  notions  that 
with  the  Pretender  we  must  entertain  French  methods  of  gov- 
ernment, such  as  tyranny  and  arbitrary  power.  Tyranny  is  no 
more  tyranny,  when  improved  for  the  subjects'  advantage:  per- 
haps when  we  have  tried  it  we  may  find  it  as  much  for  our  good 
many  ways,  nay,  and  more  too,  than  our  present  exorbitant 
liberties,  especially  unless  we  can  make  a  better  use  of  them, 


38  DANIEL  DEFOE 

and  enjoy  them,  without  being  always  going  by  the  ears  about 
them,  as  we  see  daily,  not  only  with  our  governors,  but  even 
with  one  another.  A  little  French  slavery,  though  it  be  a  fright- 
ful word  among  us,  —  that  is,  being  made  so  by  custom,  —  yet 
,  may  do  us  a  great  deal  of  good  in  the  main,  as  it  may  teach  us 
not  to  over  (under)  value  our  liberties  when  we  have  them,  so 
much  as  sometimes  we  have  done;  and  this  is  not  one  of  the 
least  advantages  which  we  shall  gain  by  the  coming  of  the  Pre- 
tender. .  .  . 

There  seems  to  be  but  one  thing  more  which  those  people 
who  make  such  a  clamor  at  the  fears  of  the  Pretender,  take  hold 
of,  and  this  is  religion;  and  they  tell  us  that  not  only  French 
government,  and  French  influence,  but  French  religion,  that  is 
to  say  Popery,  will  come  upon  us,  But  these  people  know  not 
what  they  talk  of,  for  it  is  evident  that  they  shall  be  so  far  from 
being  loaded  with  religion,  that  they  will  rather  obtain  that  so 
long  desired  happiness  of  having  no  religion  at  all.  This  we 
may  easily  make  appear  has  been  the  advantage  which  has  been 
long  labored  for  in  this  nation;  and  as  the  attainments  we  are 
arrived  to  of  that  kind  are  very  considerable  already,  so  we 
cannot  doubt  but  that,  if  once  the  Pretender  were  settled 
quietly  among  us,  an  absolute  subjection,  as  well  of  religious 
principles  as  civil  liberties,  to  the  disposal  of  the  sovereign, 
would  take  place.  This  is  an  advantage  so  fruitful  of  several 
other  manifest  improvements,  that  though  we  have  not  room 
enough  in  this  place  to  enlarge  upon  the  particulars,  we  cannot 
doubt  but  it  must  be  a  most  grateful  piece  of  news  to  a  great 
part  of  the  nation,  who  have  long  groaned  under  the  oppres- 
sions and  cruel  severities  of  the  clergy,  occasioned  by  their 
own  strict  lives  and  rigorous  virtue,  and  their  imposing  such 
austerities  and  restraints  upon  the  people;  and  in  this  particu- 
lar the  clamor  of  slavery  will  appear  very  scandalous  in  the 
nation,  for,  the  slavery  of  religion  being  taken  off,  and  an 
universal  freedom  of  vice  being  introduced,  what  greater  lib- 
erty can  we  enjoy?  .  .  . 

But  we  have  more  and  greater  advantages  of  the  coming  of 
the  Pretender,  and  such  as  no  question  will  invite  you  to  re- 
ceive him  with  great  satisfaction  and  applause;  and  it  cannot 
be  necessary  to  inform  you,  for  your  direction  in  other  cases, 
how  the  matter,  as  to  real  and  imaginary  advantage,  stands 


IF  THE  PRETENDER  SHOULD  COME    39 

with  the  nation  in  this  affair.  And  first,  the  coming  of  the  Pre- 
tender will  at  once  put  us  all  out  of  debt.  These  abomination 
Whigs,  and  these  bloody  wars,  carried  on  so  long  for  little  or 
nothing,  have,  as  is  evident  to  our  senses  now  (whatever  it  was 
all  along),  brought  a  heavy  debt  upon  the  nation;  so  that  if 
what  a  known  author  lately  published  is  true,  the  government 
pays  now  almost  six  millions  a  year  to  the  common  people  for 
interest  of  money;  that  is  to  say,  the  usurers  eat  up  the  nation, 
and  devour  six  millions  yearly;  which  is  paid,  and  must  be  paid 
now  for  a  long  time,  if  some  kind  turn,  such  as  this  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Pretender,  or  such  like,  does  not  help  us  out  of  it. 
The  weight  of  this  is  not  only  great,  insuperably  great,  but 
most  of  it  is  entailed  for  a  terrible  time,  not  only  for  our  age, 
but  beyond  the  age  of  our  grandchildren,  even  for  ninety-nine 
years.  By  how  much  the  consideration  of  this  debt  is  intoler- 
able and  afflicting  to  the  last  degree,  by  so  much  the  greater 
must  the  obligation  be  to  the  person  who  will  ease  the  nation  of 
such  a  burden;  and  therefore  we  place  it  among  the  principal 
advantages  which  we  are  to  receive  from  the  admission  of  the 
Pretender,  that  he  will  not  fail  to  rid  us  of  this  grievance,  and 
by  methods  peculiar  to  himself  deliver  us  from  so  great  a  bur- 
den as  these  debts  are  now,  and,  unless  he  deliver  us,  are  like 
to  be  to  the  ages  to  come.  Whether  he  will  do  this  at  once,  by 
remitting  most  graciously  to  the  nation  the  whole  payment, 
and  consequently  take  off  the  burden  brevi  manu,  as  with  a 
sponge  wiping  out  the  infamous  score,  leaving  it  to  fall  as  fate 
directs,  or  by  prudent  degrees,  we  know  not,  nor  is  it  our  busi- 
ness to  determine  it  here.  No  doubt  the  doing  it  with  a  jerk,  as 
we  call  it,  comme  un  coup  de  grace,  must  be  the  most  expeditious 
way ;  nay,  and  the  kindest  way  of  putting  the  nation  out  of  its 
pain;  for  lingering  deaths  are  counted  cruel;  and  though  un 
coup  d 'eclat  may  make  an  impression  for  the  present,  yet  the 
astonishment  is  soonest  over;  besides,  where  is  the  loss  to  the 
nation  in  this  sense?  Though  the  money  be  stopped  from 
the  subject  on  one  hand,  if  it  be  stopped  to  the  subjects  on  the 
other,  the  nation  loses  or  gains  nothing.  We  know  it  will  be 
answered  that  it  is  unjust,  and  that  thousands  of  families  will 
be  ruined,  because  they  who  lose  will  not  be  those  who  gain. 
But  what  is  this  to  the  purpose  in  a  national  revolution?  Un- 
just! Alas!  is  that  an  argument?  Go  and  ask  the  Pretender! 


40  DANIEL  DEFOE 

Does  not  he  say  you  have  all  done  unjustly  by  him?  and  since 
the  nation  in  general  loses  nothing,  what  obligation  has  he  to 
regard  the  particular  injury  that  some  familes  may  sustain? 
And  yet  farther,  is  it  not  remarkable  that  most  of  the  money 
is  paid  by  the  cursed  party  of  Whigs,  who  from  the  beginning 
officiously  appeared  to  keep  him  from  his  right?  And  what  obli- 
gation has  he  upon  him  to  concern  himself  for  doing  them  right 
in  particular,  more  than  other  people?  But  to  avoid  the  scandal 
of  partiality,  there  is  another  thought  offers  to  our  view,  which 
the  nation  is  beholding  to  a  particular  author  for  putting  us  in 
mind  of:  if  it  be  unjust  that  we  should  suppose  the  Pretender 
shall  stop  the  payment  on  both  sides,  because  it  is  doing  the 
Whigs  wrong,  since  the  Tories,  who  perhaps,  being  chiefly 
landed  men,  pay  the  most  taxes;  then,  to  keep  up  a  just  bal- 
ance, he  need  only  continue  the  taxes  to  be  paid  in,  and  only 
stop  the  annuities  and  interest  which  are  to  be  paid  out.  Thus 
both  sides  having  no  reason  to  envy  or  reproach  one  another 
with  hardships,  or  with  suffering  unequally,  they  may  every 
one  lose  in  proportion,  and  the  money  may  be  laid  up  in  the 
hands  of  the  new  sovereign,  for  the  good  of  the  nation.  .  .  . 

This  amassing  of  treasure,  by  the  stopping  the  funds  on  one 
hand,  and  the  receiving  the  taxes  on  the  other,  will  effectually 
enable  the  Pretender  to  set  up  and  effectually  maintain  that 
glorious  and  so  often  desired  method  of  government,  au  coup  de 
canon,  — Anglice,  a  standing  army.  .  .  .  Then  we  should  see 
a  new  face  of  our  nation,  and  Britain  would  be  no  more  a  naked 
nation,  as  it  has  formerly  been;  then  we  should  have  numerous 
and  gallant  armies  surrounding  a  martial  prince,  ready  to  make 
the  world,  as  well  as  his  own  subjects,  tremble.  Then  our  in- 
land counties  would  appear  full  of  royal  fortifications,  citadels, 
forts,  and  strong  towns,  the  beauty  of  the  kingdom,  and  awe 
of  factious  rebels.  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  this  refractory  peo- 
ple of  ours  could  never  be  made  sensible  how  much  it  is  for  the 
glory  and  safety  of  this  nation  that  we  should  be  put  into  a  pos- 
ture of  defence  against  ourselves.  It  has  been  often  alleged  that 
this  nation  can  never  be  ruined  but  with  their  own  consent:  if 
then  we  are  our  own  enemies,  is  it  not  highly  requisite  that  we 
should  be  put  in  a  position  to  have  our  own  ruin  prevented? 
And  that,  since  it  is  apparent  we  are  no  more  fit  to  be  trusted 
with  our  own  liberties,  having  a  natural  and  a  national  propen- 


A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE   YEAR         41 

sity  to  destroy  and  undo  ourselves,  and  may  be  brought  to  con- 
sent to  our  own  ruin,  we  should  have  such  princes  as  for  the  fu- 
ture know  how  to  restrain  us;  and  how  reasonable  is  it  to  allow 
them  forces  to  do  so!  .  .  . 

This  sums  up  the  happiness  of  the  Pretender's  reign.  We 
need  not  talk  of  security,  as  the  Review  has  done,  and  pretend 
he  is  not  able  to  give  us  security  for  the  performance  of  Any- 
thing he  promises.  Every  man  that  has  any  sense  of  the  prin- 
ciples, honor,  and  justice  of  the  Pretender,  his  zeal  for  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  cause,  his  gratitude  to  his  benefactor,  the  French 
King,  and  his  love  to  the  glory  and  happiness  of  his  native  coun- 
try, must  rest  satisfied  of  his  punctually  performing  all  these 
great  things  for  us.  To  ask  him  security  would  be  not  to  affront 
him  only,  but  to  affront  the  whole  nation;  no  man  can  doubt 
him ;  the  nature  of  the  thing  allows  that  he  must  do  us  all  that 
kindness;  he  cannot  be  true  to  his  own  reason  without  it.  Where- 
fore this  treaty  executes  itself,  and  appears  so  rational  to  be- 
lieve, that  whoever  doubts  it  may  be  supposed  to  doubt  even 
the  veracity  of  James  the  Just.  .  .  . 


A  JOURNAL  OF  THE   PLAGUE  YEAR 

BEING  OBSERVATIONS  OR  MEMORIALS  OF  THE  MOST  RE- 
MARKABLE OCCURRENCES,  AS  WELL  PUBLIC  AS  PRIVATE, 
WHICH  HAPPENED  IN  LONDON  DURING  THE  LAST  GREAT 
VISITATION  IN  1665 

WRITTEN  BY  A  CITIZEN  WHO  CONTINUED  ALL  THE  WHILE 
IN  LONDON.  NEVER  MADE  PUBLIC  BEFORE 

1722 

(This  work  is  the  most  famous  —  unless  we  regard  Robinson  Crusoe  as 
of  the  same  class  —  of  the  fictitious  narratives  which  Defoe  issued  under 
the  guise  of  personal  memoirs.  It  appeared  at  the  time  when  a  recurrence 
of  the  plague  was  feared,  and  seemed  so  authentic  that  at  a  later  time  it 
was  quoted  as  an  authority  by  Dr.  Mead,  who  had  been  appointed  to 
make  a  report  on  precautions  in  the  interest  of  the  public  health.  The 
Journal  is  not  divided  into  chapters  or  sections;  the  extracts  here  given 
will  be  found  on  pages  11-18,  75-80,  and  102-104  of  the  Temple  edition.] 

I  NOW  began  to  consider  seriously  with  myself  concerning  my 
own  case,  and  how  I  should  dispose  of  myself;  that  is  to  say, 


42  DANIEL  DEFOE 

whether  I  should  resolve  to  stay  in  London  or  shut  up  my 
house  and  flee,  as  many  of  my  neighbors  did.  I  have  set  this 
particular  down  so  fully,  because  I  know  not  but  it  may  be  of 
moment  to  those  who  come  after  me,  if  they  come  to  be  brought 
to  the  same  distress,  and  to  the  same  manner  of  making  their 
choice;  and  therefore  I  desire  this  account  may  pass  with 
them  rather  for  a  direction  to  themselves  to  act  by  than  a  his- 
tory of  my  actings,  seeing  it  may  not  be  of  one  farthing  value 
to  them  to  note  what  became  of  me. 

I  had  two  important  things  before  me :  the  one  was  the  carry- 
ing on  my  business  and  shop,  which  was  considerable,  and  in 
which  was  embarked  all  my  effects  in  the  world;  and  the  other 
was  the  preservation  of  my  life  in  so  dismal  a  calamity  as  I  saw 
apparently  was  coming  upon  the  whole  city,  and  which,  how- 
ever great  it  was,  my  fears  perhaps,  as  well  as  other  people's, 
represented  to  be  much  greater  than  it  could  be. 

The  first  consideration  was  of  great  moment  to  me.  My 
trade  was  a  saddler,  and  as  my  dealings  were  chiefly  not  by  a 
shop  or  chance  trade,  but  among  the  merchants  trading  to  the 
English  colonies  in  America,  so  my  effects  lay  very  much  in  the 
hands  of  such.  I  was  a  single  man,  't  is  true,  but  I  had  a  family 
of  servants  whom  I  kept  at  my  business;  had  a  house,  shop, 
and  warehouses  filled  with  goods;  and,  in  short,  to  leave  them 
all  as  things  in  such  a  case  must  be  left,  —  that  is  to  say,  with- 
out any  overseer  or  person  fit  to  be  trusted  with  them,  —  had 
been  to  hazard  the  loss  not  only  of  my  trade,  but  of  my  goods, 
and  indeed  of  all  I  had  in  the  world. 

I  had  an  elder  brother  at  the  same  time  in  London,  and  not 
many  years  before  come  over  from  Portugal,  and  advising  with 
him,  his  answer  was  in  three  words,  the  same  that  was  given  in 
another  case  quite  different,  viz.,  "  Master,  save  thyself."  In 
a  word,  he  was  for  my  retiring  into  the  country,  as  he  resolved 
to  do  himself  with  his  family;  telling  me  —  what  he  had,  it 
seems,  heard  abroad  —  that  the  best  preparation  for  the  plague 
was  to  run  away  from  it.  As  to  my  argument  of  losing  my  trade, 
my  goods,  or  debts,  he  quite  confuted  me.  He  told  me  the  same 
thing  which  I  argued  for  my  staying,  viz.,  that  I  would  trust 
God  with  my  safety  and  health,  was  the  strongest  repulse  to 
my  pretensions  of  losing  my  trade  and  my  goods.  "  For,"  says 
he,  "is  it  not  as  reasonable  that  you  should  trust  God  with  the 


A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE  YEAR    43 

chance  or  risk  of  losing  your  trade,  as  that  you  should  stay  in 
so  eminent  a  point  of  danger,  and  trust  Him  with  your  life?" 

I  could  not  argue  that  I  was  in  any  strait  as  to  a  place  where 
to  go,  having  several  friends  and  relations  in  Northampton- 
shire, whence  our  family  first  came  from;  and  particularly,  I 
had  an  only  sister  in  Lincolnshire,  very  willing  to  receive  and 
entertain  me. 

My  brother,  who  had  already  sent  his  wife  and  two  children 
into  Bedfordshire,  and  resolved  to  follow  them,  pressed  my  go- 
ing very  earnestly;  and  I  had  once  resolved  to  comply  with  his 
desires,  but  at  that  time  could  get  no  horse;  for  though  it  is  true 
all  the  people  did  not  go  out  of  the  city  of  London,  yet  I  may 
venture  to  say  that  in  a  manner  all  the  horses  did ;  for  there  was 
hardly  a  horse  to  be  bought  or  hired  in  the  whole  city  for  some 
weeks.  Once  I  resolved  to  travel  on  foot  with  one  servant,  and, 
as  many  did,  lie  at  no  inn,  but  carry  a  soldier's  tent  with  us, 
and  so  lie  in  the  fields,  the  weather  being  very  warm,  and  no 
danger  from  taking  cold.  I  say,  as  many  did,  because  several 
did  so  at  last,  especially  those  who  had  been  in  the  armies  in 
the  war  which  had  not  been  many  years  past.  And  I  must 
needs  say  that,  speaking  of  second  causes,  had  most  of  the  peo- 
ple that  traveled  done  so,  the  plague  had  not  been  carried  into 
so  many  country  towns  and  houses  as  it  was,  to  the  great  dam- 
age, and  indeed  to  the  ruin,  of  abundance  of  people. 

But  then  my  servant,  whom  I  had  intended  to  take  down 
with  me,  deceived  me;  and  being  frighted  at  the  increase  of 
the  distemper,  and  not  knowing  when  I  should  go,  he  took 
other  measures,  and  left  me;  so  I  was  put  off  for  that  time.  And 
one  way  or  other,  I  always  found  that  to  appoint  to  go  away 
was  always  crossed  by  some  accident  or  other,  so  as  to  disap- 
point and  put  it  off  again;  and  this  brings  in  a  story  which 
otherwise  might  be  thought  a  needless  digression,  viz.,  about 
these  disappointments  being  from  Heaven. 

I  mention  this  story  also  as  the  best  method  I  can  advise  any 
person  to  take  in  such  a  case,  especially  if  he  be  one  that  makes 
conscience  of  his  duty,  and  would  be  directed  what  to  do  in  it; 
namely,  that  he  should  keep  his  eye  upon  the  particular  provi- 
dences which  occur  at  that  time,  and  look  upon  them  com- 
plexly, as  they  regard  one  another,  and  as  all  together  regard 
the  question  before  him;  and  then,  I  think,  he  may  safely  take 


44  DANIEL  DEFOE 

them  for  intimations  from  Heaven  of  what  is  his  unquestioned 
duty  to  do  in  such  a  case,  —  I  mean  as  to  going  away  from  or 
staying  in  the  place  where  we  dwell,  when  visited  with  an  in- 
fectious distemper. 

It  came  very  warmly  into  my  mind  one  morning,  as  I  was 
musing  on  this  particular  thing,  that  as  nothing  attended  us 
without  the  direction  or  permission  of  Divine  Power,  so  these 
disappointments  must  have  something  in  them  extraordinary; 
and  I  ought  to  consider  whether  it  did  not  evidently  point  out, 
or  intimate  to  me,  that  it  was  the  will  of  Heaven  I  should  not 
go.  It  immediately  followed  in  my  thoughts  that,  if  it  really 
was  from  God  that  I  should  stay,  He  was  able  effectually  to  pre- 
serve me  in  the  midst  of  all  the  death  and  danger  that  would 
surround  me ;  and  that  if  I  attempted  to  secure  myself  by  flee- 
ing from  my  habitation,  and  acted  contrary  to  these  intima- 
tions which  I  believed  to  be  divine,  it  was  a  kind  of  flying  from 
God,  and  that  He  could  cause  his  justice  to  overtake  me  when 
and  where  He  thought  fit. 

These  thoughts  quite  turned  my  resolutions  again,  and  when 
I  came  to  discourse  with  my  brother  again,  I  told  him  that  I 
inclined  to  stay  and  take  my  lot  in  that  station  in  which  God 
had  placed  me,  and  that  it  seemed  to  be  made  more  especially 
my  duty,  on  the  account  of  what  I  have  said. 

My  brother,  though  a  very  religious  man  himself,  laughed  at 
all  I  had  suggested  about  its  being  an  intimation  from  Heaven, 
and  told  me  several  stories  of  such  foolhardy  people,  as  he  called 
them,  as  I  was;  that  I  ought  indeed  to  submit  to  it  as  a  work  of 
Heaven  if  I  had  been  any  way  disabled  by  distempers  or  dis- 
eases, and  that  then  not  being  able  to  go,  I  ought  to  acquiesce 
in  the  direction  of  Him  who,  having  been  my  Maker,  had  an  un- 
disputed right  of  sovereignty  in  disposing  of  me,  and  that  then 
there  had  been  no  difficulty  to  determine  which  was  the  call  of 
His  providence  and  which  was  not;  but  that  I  should  take  it  as 
an  intimation  from  Heaven  that  I  should  not  go  out  of  town, 
only  because  I  could  not  hire  a  horse  to  go,  or  my  fellow  was 
run  away  that  was  to  attend  me,  was  ridiculous,  since  at  the 
same  time  I  had  my  health  and  limbs,  and  other  servants,  and 
might  with  ease  travel  a  day  or  two  on  foot,  and,  having  a  good 
certificate  of  being  in  perfect  health,  might  either  hire  a  horse 
or  take  post  on  the  road,  as  I  thought  fit. 


A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE  YEAR    45 

Then  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  of  the  mischievous  consequences 
which  attended  the  presumption  of  the  Turks  and  Mahometans 
in  Asia  and  in  other  places  where  he  had  been  (for  my  brother, 
being  a  merchant,  was  a  few  years  before,  as  I  have  already  ob- 
served, returned  from  abroad,  coming  last  from  Lisbon),  and 
how,  presuming  upon  their  professed  predestinating  notions, 
and  of  every  man's  end  being  predetermined  and  unalterably 
beforehand  decreed,  they  would  go  unconcerned  into  infected 
places  and  converse  with  infected  persons,  by  which  means 
they  died  at  the  rate  of  ten  or  fifteen  thousand  a  week;  whereas 
the  Europeans  or  Christian  merchants,  who  kept  themselves 
retired  and  reserved,  generally  escaped  the  contagion. 

Upon  these  arguments  my  brother  changed  my  resolutions 
again,  and  I  began  to  resolve  to  go,  and  accordingly  made  all 
things  ready;  for,  in  short,  the  infection  increased  round  me, 
and  the  bills1  were  risen  to  almost  seven  hundred  a  week,  and 
my  brother  told  me  he  would  venture  to  stay  no  longer.  I  de- 
sired him  to  let  me  consider  of  it  but  till  the  next  day,  and  I 
would  resolve;  and  as  I  had  already  prepared  everything  as 
well  as  I  could  as  to  my  business,  and  whom  to  entrust  my  af- 
fairs with,  I  had  little  to  do  but  to  resolve. 

I  went  home  that  evening  greatly  oppressed  in  my  mind, 
irresolute,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do.  I  had  set  the  evening 
wholly  apart  to  consider  seriously  about  it,  and  was  all  alone; 
for  already  people  had,  as  it  were  by  a  general  consent,  taken 
up  the  custom  of  not  going  out  of  doors  after  sunset;  the  rea- 
sons I  shall  have  occasion  to  say  more  of  by-and-by. 

In  the  retirement  of  this  evening  I  endeavored  to  resolve, 
first,  what  was  my  duty  to  do,  and  I  stated  the  arguments 
which  my  brother  had  pressed  me  to  go  into  the  country,  and  I 
set  against  them  the  strong  impressions  which  I  had  on  my 
mind  for  staying;  the  visible  call  I  seemed  to  have  from  the  par- 
ticular circumstance  of  my  calling,  and  the  care  due  from  me 
for  the  preservation  of  my  effects,  which  were,  as  I  might  say, 
my  estate;  also  the  intimations  which  I  thought  I  had  from 
Heaven,  that  to  me  signified  a  kind  of  direction  to  venture;  and 
it  occurred  to  me  that,  if  I  had  what  I  might  call  a  direction  to 
stay,  I  ought  to  suppose  it  contained  a  promise  of  being  pre- 
served if  I  obeyed. 

1  That  is,  the  "bills  of  mortality,"  the  official  register  of  deaths. 


46  DANIEL  DEFOE 

This  lay  close  to  me,  and  my  mind  seemed  more  and  more 
encouraged  to  stay  than  ever,  and  supported  with  a  secret  sat- 
isfaction I  should  be  kept.  And  to  this,  that,  turning  over  the 
Bible  which  lay  before  me,  and  while  my  thoughts  were  more 
than  ordinarily  serious  upon  the  question,  I  cried  out,  "Well,  I 
know  not  what  to  do;  Lord,  direct  me!"  and  the  like.  And  at 
that  juncture  I  happened  to  stop  turning  over  the  book  at  the 
gist  Psalm,  and,  casting  my  eye  on  the  second  verse,  I  read  on 
to  the  seventh  verse  exclusive,  and  after  that  included  the  tenth, 
as  follows:  "I  will  say  of  the  Lord,  He  is  my  refuge  and  my  for- 
tress; my  God,  in  Him  will  I  trust.  Surely  He  shall  deliver  thee 
from  the  snare  of  the  fowler,  and  from  the  noisome  pestilence. 
He  shall  cover  thee  with  His  feathers,  and  under  His  wings  shalt 
thou  trust;  His  truth  shall  be  thy  shield  and  buckler.  Thou  shalt 
not  be  afraid  for  the  terror  by  night;  nor  for  the  arrow  that 
flieth  by  day;  nor  for  the  pestilence  that  walketh  in  darkness; 
nor  for  the  destruction  that  wasteth  at  noonday.  A  thousand 
shall  fall  at  thy  side,  and  ten  thousand  at  thy  right  hand;  but 
it  shall  not  come  nigh  thee.  Only  with  thine  eyes  shalt  thou 
behold  and  see  the  reward  of  the  wicked.  Because  thou  hast 
made  the  Lord,  which  is  my  refuge,  even  the  Most  High,  thy 
habitation,  there  shall  no  evil  befall  thee,  neither  shall  any 
plague  come  nigh  thy  dwelling,"  etc. 

I  scarce  need  tell  the  reader  that  from  that  moment  I  resolved 
that  I  would  stay  in  the  town,  and,  casting  myself  entirely  upon 
the  goodness  and  protection  of  the  Almighty,  would  not  seek 
any  other  shelter  whatever;  and  that,  as  my  times  were  in  His 
hands,  He  was  as  able  to  keep  me  in  a  time  of  the  infection  as  in 
a  time  of  health;  and  if  He  did  not  think  fit  to  deliver  me,  still  I 
was  in  His  hands,  and  it  was  meet  He  should  do  with  me  as 
should  seem  good  to  Him.  .  .  . 

I  went  all  the  first  part  of  the  time  freely  about  the  streets, 
though  not  so  freely  as  to  run  myself  into  apparent  danger,  ex- 
cept when  they  dug  the  great  pit  in  the  churchyard  of  our  par- 
ish of  Aldgate.  A  terrible  pit  it  was,  and  I  could  not  resist  my 
curiosity  to  go  and  see  it.  As  near  as  I  may  judge,  it  was  about 
forty  feet  in  length,  and  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  feet  broad,  and 
at  the  time  I  first  looked  at  it,  about  nine  feet  deep;  but  it  was 
said  they  dug  it  near  twenty  feet  deep  afterwards  in  one  part  of 


A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE  YEAR    47 

it,  till  they  could  go  no  deeper  for  the  water;  for  they  had,  it 
seems,  dug  several  large  pits  before  this.  For  though  the  plague 
was  long  a-coming  to  our  parish,  yet,  when  it  did  come,  there 
was  no  parish  in  or  about  London  where  it  raged  with  such  vio- 
lence as  in  the  two  parishes  of  Aldgate  and  Whitechapel. 

I  say  they  had  dug  several  pits  in  another  ground,  when  the 
distemper  began  to  spread  in  our  parish,  and  especially  when 
the  dead-carts  began  to  go  about,  which  was  not,  in  our  parish, 
till  the  beginning  of  August.  Into  these  pits  they  had  put  per- 
haps fifty  or  sixty  bodies  each;  then  they  made  larger  holes, 
wherein  they  buried  all  that  the  cart  brought  in  a  week,  which, 
by  the  middle  to  the  end  of  August,  came  to  from  200  to  400  a 
week;  and  they  could  not  well  dig  them  larger,  because  of  the 
order  of  the  magistrates  confining  them  to  leave  no  bodies 
within  six  feet  of  the  surface;  and  the  water  coming  on  at  about 
seventeen  or  eighteen  feet,  they  could  not  well,  I  say,  put  more 
in  one  pit.  But  now,  at  the  beginning  of  September,  the  plague 
raging  in  a  dreadful  manner,  and  the  number  of  burials  in  our 
parish  increasing  to  more  than  was  ever  buried  in  any  parish 
about  London  of  no  larger  extent,  they  ordered  this  dreadful 
gulf  to  be  dug,  —  for  such  it  was,  rather  than  a  pit. 

They  had  supposed  this  pit  would  have  supplied  them  for  a 
month  or  more,  when  they  dug  it,  and  some  blamed  the  church- 
wardens for  suffering  such  a  frightful  thing,  telling  them  they 
were  making  preparations  to  bury  the  whole  parish,  and  the 
like.  But  time  made  it  appear  the  churchwardens  knew  the 
condition  of  the  parish  better  than  they  did;  for,  the  pit  being 
finished  the  4th  of  September,  I  think,  they  began  to  bury  in  it 
the  6th,  and  by  the  2oth,  which  was  just  two  weeks,  they  had 
thrown  into  it  1 1 14  bodies,  when  they  were  obliged  to  fill  it  up, 
the  bodies  being  then  come  to  lie  within  six  feet  of  the  surface. 
I  doubt  not  but  there  may  be  some  ancient  persons  alive  in  the 
parish  who  can  justify  the  fact  of  this,  and  are  able  to  show 
even  in  what  place  of  the  churchyard  the  pit  lay  better  than  I 
can.  The  mark  of  it  also  was  many  years  to  be  seen  in  the 
churchyard  on  the  surface,  lying  in  length  parallel  with  the  pas- 
sage which  goes  by  the  west  wall  of  the  churchyard  out  of 
Houndsditch,  and  turns  East  again  into  Whitechapel,  coming 
out  near  the  Three  Nuns'  Inn. 

It  was  about  the  loth  of  September  that  my  curiosity  led,  or 


48  DANIEL  DEFOE 

rather  drove,  me  to  go  and  see  this  pit  again,  when  there  had 
been  near  400  people  buried  in  it;  and  I  was  not  content  to  see 
it  in  the  day-time,  as  I  had  done  before,  for  then  there  would 
have  been  nothing  to  have  been  seen  but  the  loose  earth;  for  all 
the  bodies  that  were  thrown  in  were  immediately  covered  with 
earth  by  those  they  called  the  buriers,  which  at  other  times 
were  called  bearers;  but  I  resolved  to  go  in  the  night  and  see 
some  of  them  thrown  in. 

There  was  a  strict  order  to  prevent  people  coming  to  those 
pits,  and  that  was  only  to  prevent  infection.  But  after  some 
time  that  order  was  more  necessary,  for  people  that  were  in- 
fected and  near  their  end,  and  delirious  also,  would  run  to  those 
pits,  wrapped  in  blankets  or  rugs,  and  throw  themselves  in,  and, 
as  they  said,  bury  themselves.  I  cannot  say  that  the  officers 
suffered  any  willingly  to  lie  there;  but  I  have  heard  that  in  a 
great  pit  in  Finsbury,  in  the  parish  of  Cripplegate,  it  lying  open 
then  to  the  fields,  for  it  was  not  then  walled  about,  some  came 
and  threw  themselves  in,  and  expired  there,  before  they  threw 
any  earth  upon  them ;  and  that  when  they  came  to  bury  others, 
and  found  them  there,  they  were  quite  dead,  though  not  cold. 

This  may  serve  a  little  to  describe  the  dreadful  condition  of 

that  day,  though  it  is  impossible  to  say  anything  that  is  able  to 

give  a  true  idea  of  it  to  those  who  did  not  see  it,  other  than  this, 

-  that  it  was  indeed  very,  very,  very  dreadful,  and  such  as  no 

tongue  can  express. 

I  got  admittance  into  the  churchyard  by  being  acquainted 
with  the  sexton  who  attended,  who,  though  he  did  not  refuse 
me  at  all,  yet  earnestly  persuaded  me  not  to  go,  telling  me  very 
seriously,  for  he  was  a  good,  religious,  and  sensible  man,  that  it 
was  indeed  their  business  and  duty  to  venture,  and  to  run  all 
hazards,  and  that  in  it  they  might  hope  to  be  preserved;  but 
that  I  had  no  apparent  call  to  it  but  my  own  curiosity,  which, 
he  said,  he  believed  I  would  not  pretend  was  sufficient  to  justify 
my  running  that  hazard.  I  told  him  I  had  been  pressed  in  my 
mind  to  go,  and  that  perhaps  it  might  be  an  instructing  sight, 
that  might  not  be  without  its  uses.  "Nay,"  says  the  good  man, 
"if  you  will  venture  upon  that  score,  name  of  God  go  in;  for, 
depend  upon  it,  'twill  be  a  sermon  to  you,  it  may  be,  the  best 
that  ever  you  heard  in  your  life.  'Tis  a  speaking  sight, ' '  says  he, 
"and  has  a  voice  with  it,  and  a  loud  one,  to  call  us  all  to  repent- 


A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE  YEAR    49 

ance."  And  with  that  he  opened  the  door  and  said,  "Go,  if 
you  will." 

His  discourse  had  shocked  my  resolution  a  little,  and  I  stood 
wavering  for  a  good  while,  but  just  at  that  interval  I  saw  two 
links  come  over  from  the  end  of  the  Minories,  and  heard  the 
bellman,  and  then  appeared  a  dead-cart,  as  they  called  it,  com- 
ing over  the  streets;  so  I  could  no  longer  resist  my  desire  of  see- 
ing it,  and  went  in.  There  was  nobody,  as  I  could  perceive  at 
first,  in  the  churchyard,  or  going  into  it,  but  the  buriers  and 
the  fellow  that  drove  the  cart,  or  rather  led  the  horse  and  cart; 
but  when  they  came  up  to  the  pit  they  saw  a  man  go  to  and  again, 
muffled  up  in  a  brown  cloak,  and  making  motions  with  his 
hands  under  his  cloak,  as  if  he  was  in  a  great  agony,  and  the 
buriers  immediately  gathered  about  him,  supposing  he  was  one 
of  those  poor  delirious  or  desperate  creatures  that  used  to  pre- 
tend, as  I  have  said,  to  bury  themselves.  He  said  nothing  as 
he  walked  about,  but  two  or  three  times  groaned  very  deeply 
and  loud,  and  sighed  as  he  would  break  his  heart. 

When  the  buriers  came  up  to  him  they  soon  found  he  was 
neither  a  person  infected  and  desperate,  as  I  have  observed 
above,  or  a  person  distempered  in  mind,  but  one  oppressed 
with  a  dreadful  weight  of  grief  indeed,  having  his  wife  and  sev- 
eral of  his  children  all  in  the  cart  that  was  just  come  in  with 
him,  and  he  followed  in  an  agony  and  excess  of  sorrow.  He 
mourned  heartily,  as  it  was  easy  to  see,  but  with  a  kind  of  mas- 
culine grief  that  could  not  give  itself  vent  by  tears;  and,  calmly 
defying  the  buriers  to  let  him  alone,  said  he  would  only  see  the 
bodies  thrown  in  and  go  away.  So  they  left  importuning  him. 
But  no  sooner  was  the  cart  turned  round  and  the  bodies  shot 
into  the  pit  promiscuously,  which  was  a  surprise  to  him,  for  he 
at  least  expected  they  would  have  been  decently  laid  in,  though 
indeed  he  was  afterwards  convinced  that  was  impracticable,  — 
I  say,  no  sooner  did  he  see  the  sight  but  he  cried  aloud,  unable 
to  contain  himself.  I  could  not  hear  what  he  said,  but  he  went 
backward  two  or  three  steps  and  fell  down  in  a  swoon.  The 
buriers  ran  to  him  and  took  him  up,  and  in  a  little  while  he 
came  to  himself,  and  they  led  him  away  to  the  Pie  Tavern  over 
against  the  end  of  Houndsditch,  where,  it  seems,  the  man  was 
known,  and  where  they  took  care  of  him.  He  looked  into  the 
pit  again  as  he  went  away,  but  the  buriers  had  covered  the  bod- 


50  DANIEL  DEFOE 

ies  so  immediately  with  throwing  in  earth,  that,  though  there 
was  light  enough,  —  for  there  were  lanterns,  and  candles  in 
them,  placed  all  night  round  the  sides  of  the  pit,  upon  heaps  of 
earth,  seven  or  eight,  or  perhaps  more,  —  yet  nothing  could 
be  seen. 

This  was  a  mournful  scene  indeed,  and  affected  me  almost  as 
much  as  the  rest;  but  the  other  was  awful  and  full  of  terror. 
The  cart  had  in  it  sixteen  or  seventeen  bodies;  some  were 
wrapped  up  in  linen  sheets,  some  in  rags,  some  little  other  than 
naked,  or  so  loose  that  what  covering  they  had  fell  from  them 
in  the  shooting  out  of  the  cart;  and  they  fell  quite  naked 
among  the  rest.  But  the  matter  was  not  much  to  them,  or  the 
indecency  much  to  anyone  else,  seeing  they  were  all  dead,  and 
were  to  be  huddled  together  into  the  common  grave  of  mankind, 
as  we  may  call  it;  for  here  was  no  difference  made,  but  poor  and 
rich  went  together;  there  was  no  other  way  of  burials,  neither 
was  it  possible  there  should,  for  coffins  were  not  to  be  had  for 
the  prodigious  numbers  that  fell  in  such  a  calamity  as  this.  .  .  . 

In  these  walks  I  had  many  dismal  scenes  before  my  eyes,  as 
particularly  of  persons  falling  dead  in  the  streets,  terrible 
shrieks  and  screechings  of  women,  who,  in  their  agonies,  would 
throw  open  their  chamber  windows  and  cry  out  in  a  dismal, 
surprising  manner.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  variety  of 
postures  in  which  the  passions  of  the  poor  people  would  ex- 
press themselves. 

Passing  through  Tokenhouse  Yard,  in  Lothbury,  of  a  sudden 
a  casement  violently  opened  just  over  my  head,  and  a  woman 
gave  three  frightful  screeches,  and  then  cried  —  "Oh!  death, 
death,  death! "  in  a  most  inimitable  tone,  and  which  struck  me 
with  horror  and  a  chillness  in  my  very  blood.  There  was  no- 
body to  be  seen  in  the  whole  street,  neither  did  any  other  win- 
dow open,  for  people  had  no  curiosity  now  in  any  case,  nor 
could  anybody  help  one  another;  so  I  went  on  to  pass  into  Bell 
Alley. 

Just  in  Bell  Alley,  on  the  right  hand  of  the  passage,  there  was 
a  more  terrible  cry  than  that,  though  it  was  not  so  directed 
out  at  the  window;  but  the  whole  family  was  in  a  terrible 
fright,  and  I  could  hear  women  and  children  run  screaming 
about  the  rooms  like  distracted,  when  a  garret-window  opened, 


A  JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE  YEAR    51 

and  somebody  from  a  window  on  the  other  side  the  alley  called 
and  asked,  "What  is  the  matter?"  Upon  which,  from  the  first 
window  it  was  answered,  "  O  Lord!  my  old  master  has  hanged 
himself! "  The  other  asked  again,  "  Is  he  quite  dead?  "  and  the 
first  answered,  "Ay,  ay,  quite  dead;  quite  dead  and  cold!" 
This  person  was  a  merchant  and  a  deputy  alderman,  and  very 
rich.  I  care  not  to  mention  the  name,  though  I  knew  his  name 
too ;  but  that  would  be  an  hardship  to  the  family,  which  is  now 
flourishing  again. 

But  this  is  but  one;  it  is  scarce  credible  what  dreadful  cases 
happened  in  particular  families  every  day.  People  in  the  rage 
of  the  distemper,  or  in  the  torment  of  their  swellings,  which  was 
indeed  intolerable,  running  out  of  their  own  government,  rav- 
ing and  distracted,  and  oftentimes  laying  violent  hands  upon 
themselves,  throwing  themselves  out  at  their  windows,  shoot- 
ing themselves,  etc. ;  mothers  murdering  their  own  children  in 
their  lunacy;  some  dying  of  mere  grief  as  a  passion,  some  of 
mere  fright  and  surprise  without  any  infection  at  all,  others 
frightened  into  idiotism  and  foolish  distractions,  some  into  de- 
spair and  lunacy,  others  into  melancholy  madness. 


JONATHAN   SWIFT 
A  TALE  OF  A  TUB 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  UNIVERSAL  IMPROVEMENT  OF  MANKIND 

Diu  midtumque  desideratum 
1704 

[This  early  example  of  Swift's  satire  was  written  chiefly  in  the  year 
1697.  The  title  was  already  a  familiar  phrase  in  the  meaning  of  an  absurd 
or  pointless  story.  The  book  contains  a  Dedication  to  Lord  Somers,  an 
address  from  Bookseller  to  Reader,  an  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Posterity, 
an  Author's  Preface,  and  eleven  sections,  of  which  one  is  called  The  Intro- 
duction, five  are  called  Digressions  of  various  kinds,  and  the  remaining 
five  give  the  Tale  of  the  Tub  proper,  —  the  story  of  the  three  brothers. 
Of  these,  Peter  represents  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  Martin  (from 
Martin  Luther)  the  moderate  Reformers  —  especially  of  the  Church  of 
England,  and  Jack  (from  John  Calvin)  the  more  violent  reformers  — 
Presbyterians  and  other  Dissenters.  The  father's  will  is  of  course  the 
Bible,  and  the  sons'  coats  are  organized  theology  and  church  polity;  for 
the  more  detailed  allusions  throughout  the  satire,  the  reader  must  be  re- 
ferred to  some  annotated  edition,  like  that  of  Craik  or  Prescott.  For 
convenience,  extracts  from  the  tale  of  the  three  brothers  are  here  brought 
together  continuously,  —  from  Sections  n,  iv,vi,  and  xi;  those  from  the 
Digression  on  Madness,  which  forms  Section  ix,  are  added  separately.] 

THE   EPISTLE    DEDICATORY,   TO    HIS  ROYAL   HIGHNESS    PRINCE 

POSTERITY 

SIR:  I  here  present  your  Highness  with  the  fruits  of  a  very, 
few  leisure  hours,  stolen  from  the  short  intervals  of  a  world  of 
business,  and  of  an  employment  quite  alien  from  such  amuse- 
ments as  this  the  poor  production  of  that  refuse  of  time,  which 
has  lain  heavy  upon  my  hands  during  a  long  prorogation  of 
Parliament,  a  great  dearth  of  foreign  news,  and  a  tedious  fit 
of  rainy  weather;  for  which,  and  other  reasons,  it  cannot 
choose  extremely  to  deserve  such  a  patronage  as  that  of  your 
Highness,  whose  numberless  virtues,  in  so  few  years,  make  the 
world  look  upon  you  as  the  future  example  to  all  princes.  For 
although  your  Highness  is  hardly  got  clear  of  infancy,  yet  has 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  53 

the  universal  learned  world  already  resolved  upon  appealing  to 
your  future  dictates,  with  the  lowest  and  most  resigned  sub- 
mission, fate  having  decreed  you  sole  arbiter  of  the  productions 
of  human  wit,  in  this  polite  and  most  accomplished  age.  Me- 
thinks  the  number  of  appellants  were  enough  to  shock  and 
startle  any  judge  of  a  genius  less  unlimited  than  yours;  but,  in 
order  to  prevent  such  glorious  trials,  the  person,  it  seems,  to 
whose  care  the  education  of  your  Highness  is  committed,  has 
resolved  (as  I  am  told)  to  keep  you  in  almost  a  universal  igno- 
rance of  our  studies,  which  it  is  your  inherent  birthright  to  in- 
spect. 

It  is  amazing  to  me  that  this  person  should  have  the  assur- 
ance, in  the  face  of  the  sun,  to  go  about  persuading  your  High- 
ness that  our  age  is  almost  wholly  illiterate,  and  has  hardly  pro- 
duced one  writer  upon  any  subject.  I  know  very  well  that, 
when  your  Highness  shall  come  to  riper  years,  and  have  gone 
through  the  learning  of  antiquity,  you  will  be  too  curious  to 
neglect  inquiring  into  the  authors  of  the  very  age  before  you; 
and  to  think  that  this  insolent,  in  the  account  he  is  preparing 
for  your  view,  designs  to  reduce  them  to  a  number  so  insigni- 
ficant as  I  am  ashamed  to  mention,  —  it  moves  my  zeal  and 
my  spleen,  for  the  honor  and  interest  of  our  vast  flourishing 
body,  as  well  as  of  myself,  for  whom,  I  know  by  long  experi- 
ence, he  has  professed,  and  still  continues,  a  peculiar  malice. 

It  is  not  unlikely  that,  when  your  Highness  will  one  day  pe- 
ruse what  I  am  now  writing,  you  may  be  ready  to  expostulate 
with  your  governor,  upon  the  credit  of  what  I  here  affirm,  and 
command  him  to  show  you  some  of  our  productions.  To  which 
he  will  answer  (for  I  am  well  informed  of  his  designs)  by  asking 
your  Highness  where  they  are?  and  what  is  become  of  them? 
and  pretend  it  a  demonstration  that  there  never  were  any,  be- 
cause they  are  not  then  to  be  found.  Not  to  be  found!  Who 
has  mislaid  them?  are  they  sunk  in  the  abyss  of  things?  It  is 
certain  that  in  their  own  nature  they  were  light  enough  to  swim 
upon  the  surface  for  all  eternity.  Therefore  the  fault  is  in  him 
who  tied  weights  so  heavy  to  their  heels  as  to  depress  them  to 
the  centre.  Is  their  very  essence  destroyed?  Who  has  annihil- 
ated them?  Were  they  drowned  by  purges,  or  martyred  by 
pipes?  But,  that  it  may  no  longer  be  a  doubt  with  your  High- 
ness who  is  to  be  the  author  of  this  universal  ruin,  I  beseech  you 


54  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

to  observe  that  large  and  terrible  scythe  which  your  governor 
affects  to  bear  continually  about  him.  Be  pleased  to  remark 
the  length  and  strength,  the  sharpness  and  hardness,  of  his 
nails  and  teeth;  consider  his  baneful,  abominable  breath,  enemy 
to  life  and  matter,  infectious  and  corrupting;  and  then  reflect 
whether  it  be  possible  for  any  mortal  ink  and  paper  of  this  gen- 
eration to  make  a  suitable  resistance.  Oh!  that  your  Highness 
would  one  day  resolve  to  disarm  this  usurping  maitre  du  palais 
of  his  furious  engines,  and  bring  your  empire  hors  de  page.1 

It  were  needless  to  recount  the  several  methods  of  tyranny 
and  destruction,  which  your  governor  is  pleased  to  practice 
upon  this  occasion.  His  inveterate  malice  is  such  to  the  writ- 
ings of  our  age,  that  of  several  thousands  produced  yearly  from 
this  renowned  city,  before  the  next  revolution  of  the  sun  there 
is  not  one  to  be  heard  of.  Unhappy  infants!  many  of  them 
barbarously  destroyed,  before  they  have  so  much  as  learnt 
their  mother  tongue  to  beg  for  pity.  Some  he  stifles  in  their 
cradles;  others  he  frights  into  convulsions,  whereof  they  sud- 
denly die;  some  he  flays  alive,  others  he  tears  limb  from  limb. 
Great  numbers  are  offered  to  Moloch;  and  the  rest,  tainted  by 
his  breath,  die  of  a  languishing  consumption. 

But  the  concern  I  have  most  at  heart  is  for  our  corporation 
of  poets,  from  whom  I  am  preparing  a  petition  to  your  High- 
ness, to  be  subscribed  with  the  names  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-six  of  the  first  rate,  but  whose  immortal  productions  are 
never  likely  to  reach  your  eyes,  though  each  of  them  is  now  an 
humble  and  earnest  appellant  for  the  laurel,  and  has  large 
comely  volumes  ready  to  show,  for  a  support  to  his  preten- 
sions. The  never-dying  works  of  these  illustrious  persons,  your 
governor,  sir,  has  devoted  to  unavoidable  death;  and  your  High- 
ness is  to  be  made  to  believe  that  our  age  has  never  arrived  at 
the  honor  to  produce  one  single  poet.  We  confess  Immortality 
to  be  a  great  and  powerful  goddess,  but  in  vain  we  offer  up  to 
her  our  devotions  and  our  sacrifices,  if  your  Highness's  gov- 
ernor, who  has  usurped  the  priesthood,  must,  by  an  unparalleled 
ambition  and  avarice,  wholly  intercept  and  devour  them. 

To  affirm  that  our  age  is  altogether  unlearned,  and  devoid 
of  writers  in  any  kind,  seems  to  be  an  assertion  so  bold  and  so 
false,  that  I  have  been  some  time  thinking  the  contrary  may 

1  Independent  (having  finished  the  term  of  service  of  a  page). 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  55 

almost  be  proved  by  uncontrollable  demonstration.  It  is  true, 
indeed,  that  although  their  numbers  be  vast,  and  their  produc- 
tions numerous  in  proportion,  yet  are  they  hurried  so  hastily 
off  the  scene  that  they  escape  our  memory  and  elude  our  sight. 
When  I  first  thought  of  this  address,  I  had  prepared  a  copious 
list  of  titles  to  present  to  your  Highness,  as  an  undisputed  argu- 
ment for  what  I  affirm.  The  originals  were  posted  fresh  upon 
all  gates  and  corners  of  streets;  but,  returning  in  a  very  few 
hours  to  take  a  review,  they  were  all  torn  down,  and  fresh  ones 
in  their  places.  I  inquired  after  them  among  readers  and  book- 
sellers, but  I  inquired  in  vain;  the  memorial  of  them  was  lost 
among  men;  their  place  was  no  more  to  be  found;  and  I  was 
laughed  to  scorn  for  a  clown  and  a  pedant,  without  all  taste  and 
refinement,  little  versed  in  the  course  of  present  affairs,  and 
that  knew  nothing  of  what  had  passed  in  the  best  companies 
of  court  and  town.  So  that  I  can  only  avow  in  general  to  your 
Highness  that  we  do  abound  in  learning  and  wit;  but  to  fix 
upon  particulars  is  a  task  too  slippery  for  my  slender  abilities. 
If  I  should  venture  in  a  windy  day  to  affirm  to  your  Highness 
that  there  is  a  large  cloud  near  the  horizon,  in  the  form  of  a 
bear;  another  in  the  zenith,  with  the  head  of  an  ass;  a  third  to 
the  westward,  with  claws  like  a  dragon;  and  your  Highness 
should  in  a  few  minutes  think  fit  to  examine  the  truth,  it  is  cer- 
tain they  would  all  be  changed  in  figure  and  position.  New 
ones  would  arise,  and  all  we  could  agree  upon  would  be  that 
clouds  there  were,  but  that  I  was  grossly  mistaken  in  the  zoo- 
graphy  and  topography  of  them. 

But  your  governor  perhaps  may  still  insist,  and  put  the  ques- 
tion, —  What  is  then  become  of  those  immense  bales  of  paper, 
which  must  needs  have  been  employed  in  such  numbers  of 
books?  Can  these  also  be  wholly  annihilate,  and  so  of  a  sudden, 
as  I  pretend?  What  shall  I  say  in  return  of  so  invidious  an  ob- 
jection? Books,  like  men  their  authors,  have  no  more  than  one 
way  of  coming  into  the  world,  but  there  are  ten  thousand  to  go 
out  of  it,  and  return  no  more. 

I  profess  to  your  Highness,  in  the  integrity  of  my  heart,  that 
what  I  am  going  to  say  is  literally  true  this  minute  I  am  writ- 
ing; what  revolutions  may  happen  before  it  shall  be  ready  for 
your  perusal,  I  can  by  no  means  warrant;  however,  I  beg  you 
to  accept  it  as  a  specimen  of  our  learning,  our  politeness,  and 


56  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

our  wit.  I  do  therefore  affirm,  upon  the  word  of  a  sincere  man, 
that  there  is  now  actually  in  being  a  certain  poet,  called  John 
Dryden,  whose  translation  of  Virgil  was  lately  printed  in  a 
large  folio,  well  bound,  and,  if  diligent  search  were  made,  for 
aught  I  know,  is  yet  to  be  seen.  There  is  another,  called  Na- 
hum  Tate,  who  is  ready  to  make  oath  that  he  has  caused  many 
reams  of  verse  to  be  published,  whereof  both  himself  and  his 
bookseller  (if  lawfully  required)  can  still  produce  authentic 
copies,  and  therefore  wonders  why  the  world  is  pleased  to  make 
such  a  secret  of  it.  There  is  a  third,  known  by  the  name  of  Tom 
Durfey,  a  poet  of  a  vast  comprehension,  a  universal  genius,  and 
most  profound  learning.  There  are  also  one  Mr.  Rymer  and 
one  Mr.  Dennis,  most  profound  critics.  There  is  a  person 
styled  Dr.  Bentley,  who  has  written  near  a  thousand  pages  of 
immense  erudition,  giving  a  full  and  true  account  of  a  certain 
squabble  of  wonderful  importance  between  himself  and  a  book- 
seller; he  is  a  writer  of  infinite  wit  and  humor;  no  man  rallies 
with  a  better  grace,  and  in  more  sprightly  turns.  Farther,  I  avow 
to  your  Highness  that  with  these  eyes  I  have  beheld  the  person 
of  William  Wotton,  B.D.,  who  has  written  a  good  sizable  vol- 
ume against  a  friend  1  of  your  governor  (from  whom,  alas !  he 
must  therefore  look  for  little  favor),  in  a  most  gentlemanly 
style,  adorned  with  the  utmost  politeness  and  civility,  replete 
with  discoveries  equally  valuable  for  their  novelty  and  use, 
and  embellished  with  traits  of  wit  so  poignant  and  so  appo- 
site that  he  is  a  worthy  yokemate  to  his  forementioned  friend. 

'Why  should  I  go  upon  farther  particulars,  which  might  fill  a 
volume  with  the  just  eulogies  of  my  contemporary  brethren? 
I  shall  bequeath  this  piece  of  justice  to  a  larger  work,  wherein 
I  intend  to  write  a  character  of  the  present  set  of  wits  in  our 
nation.  Their  persons  I  shall  describe  particularly  and  at 
length,  their  genius  and  understandings  in  miniature. 

In  the  meantime,  I  do  here  make  bold  to  present  your  High- 
ness with  a  faithful  abstract,  drawn  from  the  universal  body 
of  all  arts  and  sciences,  intended  wholly  for  your  service  and 
instruction.  Nor  do  I  doubt  in  the  least  but  your  Highness 
will  peruse  it  as  carefully,  and  make  as  considerable  improve- 
ments, as  other  young  princes  have  already  done  by  the  many 
volumes  of  late  years  written  for  a  help  to  their  studies. 

1  Sir  William  Temple,  who  had  taken  the  part  of  antiquity  in  the  "quarrel  of  the  an- 
Clents  and  moderns,"  while  Wotton  represented  the  latter.  See  Swift's  Battle  of  the  Bookt. 


A   TALE  OF  A  TUB  57 

That  your  Highness  may  advance  in  wisdom  and  virtue,  as 
well  as  years,  and  at  last  outshine  all  your  royal  ancestors,  shall 
be  the  daily  prayer  of,  Sir, 

Your  Highness's  most  devoted,  &c. 

Dec.  1697. 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB 

Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  man  who  had  three  sons  by 
one  wife,  and  all  at  a  birth;  neither  could  the  midwife  tell  cer- 
tainly which  was  the  eldest.  Their  father  died  while  they  were 
young;  and  upon  his  death-bed,  calling  the  lads  to  him,  spoke 
thus: 

"Sons,  because  I  have  purchased  no  estate,  nor  was  born  to 
any,  I  have  long  considered  of  some  good  legacies  to  bequeath 
you;  and  at  last,  with  much  care,  as  well  as  expense,  have  pro- 
vided each  of  you  (here  they  are)  a  new  coat.  Now  you  are  to 
understand  that  these  coats  have  two  virtues  contained  in  them: 
one  is,  that  with  good  wearing  they  will  last  you  fresh  and 
sound  as  long  as  you  live;  the  other  is,  that  they  will  grow  in 
the  same  proportion  with  your  bodies,  lengthening  and  widen- 
ing of  themselves,  so  as  to  be  always  fit.  Here,  —  let  me  see 
them  on  you  before  I  die.  So;  very  well;  pray,  children,  wear 
them  clean,  and  brush  them  often.  You  will  find  in  my  will 
(here  it  is)  full  instructions  in  every  particular  concerning  the 
wearing  and  management  of  your  coats;  wherein  you  must  be 
very  exact,  to  avoid  the  penalties  I  have  appointed  for  every 
transgression  or  neglect,  upon  which  your  future  fortunes  will 
entirely  depend.  I  have  also  commanded  in  my  will,  that  you 
should  live  together  in  one  house  like  brethren  and  friends,  for 
then  you  will  be  sure  to  thrive,  and  not  otherwise." 

Here,  the  story  says,  this  good  father  died,  and  the  three  sons 
went  all  together  to  seek  their  fortunes. 

I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  recounting  what  adventures  they 
met  for  the  first  seven  years,  any  farther  than  by  taking  notice 
that  they  carefully  observed  their  father's  will,  and  kept  their 
coats  in  very  good  order;  that  they  traveled  through  several 
countries,  encountered  a  reasonable  quantity  of  giants,  and 
slew  certain  dragons. 

Being  now  arrived  at  the  proper  age  for  producing  themselves, 


58  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

they  came  up  to  town,  and  fell  in  love  with  the  ladies,  but  espe- 
cially three,  who  about  that  time  were  in  chief  reputation, — 
the  Duchess  d'Argent,  Madame  de  Grands  Titres,  and  the 
Countess  d'Orgueil.  On  their  first  appearance,  our  three  ad- 
venturers met  with  a  very  bad  reception;  and  soon  with  great 
sagacity  guessing  out  the  reason,  they  quickly  began  to  improve 
in  the  good  qualities  of  the  town:  they  writ,  and  rallied,  and 
rhymed,  and  sung,  and  said,  and  said  nothing;  they  drank,  and 
fought,  and  slept,  and  swore,  and  took  snuff;  they  went  to  new 
plays  on  the  first  night,  haunted  the  chocolate-houses,  beat  the 
watch,  and  lay  on  bulks;  they  bilked  hackney-coachmen,  and 
ran  in  debt  with  shopkeepers;  they  killed  bailiffs,  kicked  fid- 
dlers down  stairs,  eat  at  Locket's,  loitered  at  Will's;1  they  talked 
of  the  drawing-room,  and  never  came  there;  dined  with  lords 
they  never  saw;  whispered  a  duchess,  and  spoke  never  a  word; 
exposed  the  scrawls  of  their  laundress  for  billetdoux  of  quality; 
came  ever  just  from  court,  and  were  never  seen  in  it;  attended 
the  levee  sub  dio ; 2  got  a  list  of  peers  by  heart  in  one  company, 
and  with  great  familiarity  retailed  them  in  another.  Above  all, 
they  constantly  attended  those  committees  of  senators  who  are 
silent  in  the  house  and  loud  in  the  coffee-house,  where  they 
nightly  adjourn  to  chew  the  cud  of  politics,  and  are  encom- 
passed with  a  ring  of  disciples,  who  lie  in  wait  to  catch  up 
their  droppings.  The  three  brothers  had  acquired  forty  other 
qualifications  of  the  like  stamp,  too  tedious  to  recount,  and  by 
consequence  were  justly  reckoned  the  most  accomplished  per- 
sons in  the  town;  but  all  would  not  suffice,  and  the  ladies  afore- 
said continued  still  inflexible.  To  clear  up  which  difficulty  I 
must,  with  the  reader's  good  leave  and  patience,  have  recourse 
to  some  points  of  weight,  which  the  authors  of  that  age  have 
not  sufficiently  illustrated. 

For  about  this  time  it  happened  a  sect  arose,  whose  tenets 
obtained  and  spread  very  far,  especially  in  the  grand  monde, 
and  among  everybody  of  good  fashion.  They  worshiped  a  sort 
of  idol,3  who,  as  their  doctrine  delivered,  did  daily  create  men 
by  a  kind  of  manufactory  operation.  This  idol  they  placed  in 
the  highest  part  of  the  house,  on  an  altar  erected  about  three 
foot;  he  was  shown  in  the  posture  of  a  Persian  emperor,  sitting 

1  A  leading  coffee-house,  in  Covent  Garden.  Locket's  was  a  restaurant  near  Charing 
Cross. 

1  In  the  open  air;  i.  e.  they  stayed  in  the  street.  *  The  tailor. 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  59 

on  a  superficies,  with  his  legs  interwoven  under  him.  This  god 
had  a  goose  for  his  ensign;  whence  it  is  that  some  learned  men 
pretend  to  deduce  his  original  from  Jupiter  Capitolinus.  At 
his  left  hand,  beneath  the  altar,  Hell  seemed  to  open,  and  catch 
at  the  animals  the  idol  was  creating;  to  prevent  which,  certain 
of  his  priests  hourly  flung  in  pieces  of  the  uninformed  mass,  or 
substance,  and  sometimes  whole  limbs  already  enlivened,  which 
that  horrid  gulf  insatiably  swallowed,  terrible  to  behold.  The 
goose  was  held  a  subaltern  divinity  or  deus  minorum  gentium, 
before  whose  shrine  was  sacrificed  that  creature  whose  hourly 
food  is  human  gore,  and  who  is  in  so  great  renown  abroad  for 
being  the  delight  and  favorite  of  the  Egyptian  Cercopithecus. 
Millions  of  these  animals  were  cruelly  slaughtered  every  day 
to  appease  the  hunger  of  that  consuming  deity.  The  chief  idol 
was  also  worshiped  as  the  inventor  of  the  yard  and  needle; 
whether  as  the  god  of  seamen,  or  on  account  of  certain  other 
mystical  attributes,  has  not  been  sufficiently  cleared. 

The  worshipers  of  this  deity  had  also  a  system  of  their  be- 
lief, which  seemed  to  turn  upon  the  following  fundamentals. 
They  held  the  universe  to  be  a  large  suit  of  clothes,  which  in- 
vests everything;  that  the  earth  is  invested  by  the  air;  the  air  is 
invested  by  the  stars;  and  the  stars  are  invested  by  the  primum 
mobile.  Look  on  this  globe  of  earth,  you  will  find  it  to  be  a  very 
complete  and  fashionable  dress.  What  is  that  which  some  call 
land,  but  a  fine  coat  faced  with  green?  or  the  sea,  but  a  waist- 
coat of  water-tabby?  Proceed  to  the  particular  works  of  the 
creation,  you  will  find  how  curious  journeyman  Nature  has  been, 
to  trim  up  the  vegetable  beaux;  observe  how  sparkish  a  peri- 
wig adorns  the  head  of  a  beech,  and  what  a  fine  doublet  of  white 
satin  is  worn  by  the  birch.  To  conclude  from  all,  what  is  man 
himself  but  a  micro-coat,  or  rather  a  complete  suit  of  clothes 
with  all  its  trimmings?  As  to  his  body,  there  can  be  no  dispute; 
but  examine  even  the  acquirements  of  his  mind,  you  will  find 
them  all  contribute  in  their  order  towards  furnishing  out  an  ex- 
act dress:  to  instance  no  more,  is  not  religion  a  cloak;  honesty 
a  pair  of  shoes  worn  out  in  the  dirt;  self-love  a  surtout;  vanity 
a  shirt;  and  conscience  a  pair  of  breeches? 

These  postulate  being  admitted,  it  will  follow  in  due  course 
of  reasoning  that  those  beings,  which  the  world  calls  improperly 
suits  of  clothes,  are  in  reality  the  most  refined  species  cl  ani- 


60  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

mals;  or,  to  proceed  higher,  that  they  are  rational  creatures,  or 
men.  For  is  it  not  manifest  that  they  live,  and  move,  and  talk, 
and  perform  all  other  offices  of  human  life?  Are  not  beauty, 
and  wit,  and  mien,  and  breeding,  their  inseparable  proprieties? 
In  short,  we  see  nothing  but  them,  hear  nothing  but  them.  Is 
it  not  they  who  walk  the  streets,  fill  up  parliament-,  coffee-, 
play-houses?  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  these  animals,  which  are 
vulgarly  called  suits  of  clothes,  or  dresses,  do,  according  to  cer- 
tain compositions,  receive  different  appellations.  If  one  of  them 
be  trimmed  up  with  a  gold  chain,  and  a  red  gown,  and  a  white 
rod,  and  a  great  horse,  it  is  called  a  lord-mayor;  if  certain  er- 
mines and  furs  be  placed  in  a  certain  position,  we  style  them  a 
judge;  and  so  an  apt  conjunction  of  lawn  and  black  satin  we 
entitle  a  bishop. 

Others  of  these  professors,  though  agreeing  in  the  main  sys- 
tem, were  yet  more  refined  upon  certain  branches  of  it,  and 
held  that  man  was  an  animal  compounded  of  two  dresses,  the 
natural  and  celestial  suit,  which  were  the  body  and  the  soul; 
that  the  soul  was  the  outward,  and  the  body  the  inward  cloth- 
ing; that  the  latter  was  ex  traduce,1  but  the  former  of  daily 
creation  and  circumf  usion ;  this  last  they  proved  by  scripture,  be- 
cause in  them  we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being,  as  like- 
wise by  philosophy,  because  they  are  all  in  all,  and  all  in  every 
part.  Besides,  said  they,  separate  these  two,  and  you  will  find 
the  body  to  be  only  a  senseless  unsavory  carcase.  By  all  which 
it  is  manifest  that  the  outward  dress  must  needs  be  the  soul. 

To  this  system  of  religion  were  tagged  several  subaltern  doc- 
trines, which  were  entertained  with  great  vogue;  as  particu- 
larly, the  faculties  of  the  mind  were  deduced  by  the  learned 
among  them  in  this  manner:  embroidery  was  sheer  wit;  gold 
fringe  was  agreeable  conversation;  gold  lace  was  repartee;  a 
huge  long  periwig  was  humor;  and  a  coat  full  of  powder  was 
very  good  raillery;  —  all  which  required  abundance  of  finesse 
and  delicatesse  to  manage  with  advantage,  as  well  as  a  strict 
observance  after  times  and  fashions. 

I  have,  with  much  pains  and  reading,  collected  out  of  an- 
cient authors  this  short  summary  of  a  body  of  philosophy  and 
divinity,  which  seems  to  have  been  composed  by  a  vein  and 

1  Received  directly  from  the  original  source;  an  allusion  to  a  theological  dispute  as  to 
the  origin  of  the-  soul. 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  6r 

race  of  thinking  very  different  from  any  other  systems  either  an- 
cient or  modern.  And  it  was  not  merely  to  entertain  or  satisfy 
the  reader's  curiosity,  but  rather  to  give  him  light  into  several 
circumstances  of  the  following  story;  that,  knowing  the  state  of 
dispositions  and  opinions  in  an  age  so  remote,  he  may  bettei 
comprehend  those  great  events  which  were  the  issue  of  them. 
I  advise  therefore  the  courteous  reader  to  peruse  with  a  world 
of  application,  again  and  again,  whatever  I  have  written  upon 
this  matter.  And  leaving  these  broken  ends,  I  carefully  gather 
up  the  chief  thread  of  my  story  and  proceed. 

These  opinions,  therefore,  were  so  universal,  as  well  as  the 
practices  of  them,  among  the  refined  part  of  court  and  town, 
that  our  three  brother-adventurers,  as  their  circumstances 
then  stood,  were  strangely  at  a  loss.  For,  on  the  one  side,  the 
three  ladies  they  addressed  themselves  to,  whom  we  have  named 
already,  were  at  the  very  top  of  the  fashion,  and  abhorred  all 
that  were  below  it  the  breadth  of  a  hair.  On  the  other  side, 
their  father's  will  was  very  precise,  and  it  was  the  main  pre- 
cept in  it,  with  the  greatest  penalties  annexed,  not  to  add  to  or 
diminish  from  their  coats  one  thread,  without  a  positive  com- 
mand in  the  will.  Now  the  coats  their  father  had  left  them 
were,  it  is  true,  of  very  good  cloth,  and  besides,  so  neatly  sewn, 
you  would  swear  they  were  all  of  a  piece;  but  at  the  same  time 
very  plain,  and  with  little  or  no  ornament;  and  it  happened  that, 
before  they  were  a  month  in  town,  great  shoulder-knots  came 
up;  straight  all  the  world  was  shoulder-knots;  —  no  approach- 
ing the  ladies'  ruelks  l  without  the  quota  of  shoulder-knots. 
"  That  fellow,"  cries  one,  "  has  no  soul;  where  is  his  shoulder- 
knot?"  Our  three  brethren  soon  discovered  their  want  by  sad 
experience,  meeting  in  their  walks  with  forty  mortifications  and 
indignities.  If  they  went  to  the  play-house,  the  door-keeper 
showed  them  into  the  twelve-penny  gallery.  If  they  called  a 
boat,  says  a  waterman,  "  I  am  first  sculler."  If  they  stepped  to 
the  Rose  to  take  a  bottle,  the  drawer  would  cry,  "Friend,  we 
sell  no  ale."  If  they  went  to  visit  a  lady,  a  footman  met  them 
at  the  door,  with  "Pray  send  up  your  message."  In  this  un- 
happy case,  they  went  immediately  to  consult  their  father's 
will,  read  it  over  and  over,  but  not  a  word  of  the  shoulder-knct. 
What  should  they  do?  What  temper  should  they  find?  Obe- 

1  The  bed-room  alcoves  used  as  reception-rooms  by  French  ladies. 


62  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

dience  was  absolutely  necessary,  and  yet  shoulder-knots  ap- 
peared extremely  requisite.  After  much  thought,  one  of  the 
brothers,  who  happened  to  be  more  book-learned  than  the  other 
iwo,  said  he  had  found  an  expedient.  "It  is  true,"  said  he, 
"there  is  nothing  here  in  this  will,  totidem  verbis,  making  men- 
tion of  shoulder-knots;  but  I  dare  conjecture,  we  may  find  them 
inclusive,  or  totidem  syllabis."  This  distinction  was  immediately 
approved  by  all,  and  so  they  fell  again  to  examine  the  will;  but 
their  evil  star  had  so  directed  the  matter  that  the  first  syllable 
was  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole  writings.  Upon  which  disap- 
pointment, he  who  found  the  former  evasion  took  heart,  and 
said,  "  Brothers,  there  are  yet  hopes;  for  though  we  cannot  find 
them  totidem  verbis,  nor  totidem  syllabis,  I  dare  engage  we  shall 
make  them  out  tertio  modo,  or  totidem  literis."  This  discovery 
was  also  highly  commended,  upon  which  they  fell  once  more  to 
the  scrutiny,  and  picked  out  s,  H,  o,  u,  L,  D,  E,  R;  when  the  same 
planet,  enemy  to  their  repose,  had  wonderfully  contrived  that  a 
K  was  not  to  be  found.  Here  was  a  weighty  difficulty!  But  the 
distinguishing  brother,  for  whom  we  shall  hereafter  find  a  name, 
now  his  hand  was  in,  proved  by  a  very  good  argument  that  K  was 
a  modern,  illegitimate  letter,  unknown  to  the  learned  ages,  nor 
anywhere  to  be  found  in  ancient  manuscripts.  "'Tis  true," 
said  he,  "Calendae  hath  in  Q.  v.  c.1  been  sometimes  written  with 
a  K,  but  erroneously;  for  in  the  best  copies  it  has  been  ever  spelt 
with  a  c."  And,  by  consequence,  it  was  a  gross  mistake  in  our 
language  to  spell  knot  with  a  K;  but  that  from  henceforward  he 
would  take  care  it  should  be  written  with  a  c.  Upon  this  all 
farther  difficulty  vanished;  shoulder-knots  were  made  clearly 
out  to  be  jure  paterno',  and  our  three  gentlemen  swaggered  with 
as  large  and  as  flaunting  ones  as  the  best.  But,  as  human  happi- 
ness is  of  a  very  short  duration,  so  in  those  days  were  human 
fashions,  upon  which  it  entirely  depends.  Shoulder-knots  had 
their  time,  and  we  must  now  imagine  them  in  their  decline;  for 
a  certain  lord  came  just  from  Paris,  with  fifty  yards  of  gold  lace 
upon  his  coat,  exactly  trimmed  after  the  court  fashion  of  that 
month.  In  two  days  all  mankind  appeared  closed  up  in  bars  of 
gold  lace;  whoever  durst  peep  abroad  without  his  complement 
of  gold  lace,  was  ill  received  among  the  women.  What  should 
our  three  knights  do  in  this  momentous  affair?  They  had  suffi* 

1  Some  ancient  MSS.  (quibusdam  veteribus  codicibus). 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  63 

ciently  strained  a  point  already  in  the  affair  of  shoulder-knots; 
upon  recourse  to  the  will,  nothing  appeared  there  but  altum  si- 
lentium.  That  of  the  shoulder-knots  was  a  loose,  flying,  circum- 
stantial point;  but  this  of  gold  lace  seemed  too  considerable  an 
alteration  without  better  warrant;  it  did  aliquo  modo  essentia 
adhcerere,1  and  therefore  required  a  positive  precept.  But  about 
this  time  it  fell  out  that  the  learned  brother  aforesaid  had  read 
Aristotelis  dialectica,  and  especially  that  wonderful  piece  de  in- 
ter pretatione,  which  has  the  faculty  of  teaching  its  readers  to 
find  out  a  meaning  in  everything  but  itself,  —  like  commenta- 
tors on  the  Revelations,  who  proceed  prophets  without  under- 
standing a  syllable  of  the  text.  "Brothers,"  said  he,  "you  are 
to  be  informed  that  of  wills  duo  sunt  genera,  nuncupatory  and 
scrip tory;  that  in  the  scrip tory  will  here  before  us,  there  is  no 
precept  or  mention  about  gold  lace,  conceditur;  but,  si  idem  affir- 
metur  de  nuncupatorio,  negatur.  For,  brothers,  if  you  remem- 
ber, we  heard  a  fellow  say,  when  we  were  boys,  that  he  heard 
my  father's  man  say  that  he  heard  my  father  say  that  he  would 
advise  his  sons  to  get  gold  lace  on  their  coats,  as  soon  as  ever 
they  could  procure  money  to  buy  it."  "  By  G — !  that  is  very 
true,"  cried  the  other.  "I  remember  it  perfectly  well,"  said  the 
third.  And  so  without  more  ado  got  the  largest  gold  lace  in 
the  parish,  and  walked  about  as  fine  as  lords. 

A  while  after  there  came  up  all  in  fashion  a  pretty  sort  of 
flame-colored  satin  for  linings,  and  the  mercer  brought  a  pat- 
tern of  it  immediately  to  our  three  gentlemen.  "An  please 
your  worships,"  said  he,  "  my  Lord  C-  —  and  Sir  J.  W.  had  lin- 
ings out  of  this  very  piece  last  night;  it  takes  wonderfully,  and 
I  shall  not  have  a  remnant  left  enough  to  make  my  wife  a  pin- 
cushion, by  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock."  Upon  this  they 
fell  again  to  rummage  the  will,  because  the  present  case  also 
required  a  positive  precept,  the  lining  being  held  by  orthodox 
writers  to  be  of  the  essence  of  the  coat.  After  long  search,  they 
could  fix  upon  nothing  to  the  matter  in  hand,  except  a  short  ad- 
vice of  their  father  in  the  will,  to  take  care  of  fire,  and  put  out 
their  candles  before  they  went  to  sleep.  This,  though  a  good 
deal  for  the  purpose,  and  helping  very  far  towards  self-convic- 
tion, yet  not  seeming  wholly  of  force  to  establish  a  command 

1  This  and  the  Latin  phrases  that  follow  burlesque  the  jargon  of  the  Schoolmen  of  the 
mediaeval  church. 


64  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

(being  resolved  to  avoid  farther  scruple,  as  well  as  future  occa- 
sion for  scandal),  says  he  that  was  the  scholar,  "I  remember  to 
have  read  in  wills  of  a  codicil  annexed,  which  is  indeed  a  part  of 
the  will,  and  what  it  contains  has  equal  authority  with  the  rest. 
Now  I  have  been  considering  of  this  same  will  here  before  us, 
and  I  cannot  reckon  it  to  be  complete  for  want  of  such  a  codicil. 
I  will  therefore  fasten  one  in  its  proper  place  very  dexterously; 
I  have  had  it  by  me  some  time;  it  was  written  by  a  dog-keeper 
of  my  grandfather's,  and  talks  a  great  deal,  as  good  luck  would 
have  it,  of  this  very  flame-colored  satin."  The  project  was  im- 
mediately approved  by  the  other  two;  an  old  parchment  scroll 
was  tagged  on  according  to  art,  in  the  form  of  a  codicil  annexed, 
and  the  satin  bought  and  worn. 

Next  winter  a  player,  hired  for  the  purpose  by  the  corpora- 
tion of  fringe-makers,  acted  his  part  in  a  new  comedy,  all  cov- 
ered with  silver  fringe,  and,  according  to  the  laudable  custom, 
gave  rise  to  that  fashion.  Upon  which  the  brothers,  consulting 
their  father's  will,  to  their  great  astonishment  found  these 
words:  "Item,  I  charge  and  command  my  said  three  sons  to 
wear  no  sort  of  silver  fringe  upon  or  about  their  said  coats,  &c.," 
with  a  penalty,  in  case  of  disobedience,  too  long  here  to  insert. 
However,  after  some  pause,  the  brother  so  often  mentioned  for 
his  erudition,  who  was  well  skilled  in  criticisms,  had  found  in  a 
certain  author,  which  he  said  should  be  nameless,  that  the 
same  word  which,  in  the  will,  is  called  fringe,  does  also  signify  a 
broom-stick,  and  doubtless  ought  to  have  the  same  interpreta- 
tion in  this  paragraph.  This  another  of  the  brothers  disliked, 
because  of  that  epithet  silver,  which  could  not,  he  humbly  con- 
ceived, in  propriety  of  speech,  be  reasonably  applied  to  a  broom- 
stick ;  but  it  was  replied  upon  him  that  his  epithet  was  under- 
stood in  a  mythological  and  allegorical  sense.  However,  he 
objected  again,  why  their  father  should  forbid  them  to  wear 
a  broom-stick  on  their  coats,  a  caution  that  seemed  unnatural 
and  impertinent?  —  upon  which  he  was  taken  up  short,  as  one 
who  spoke  irreverently  of  a  mystery,  which  doubtless  was  very 
useful  and  significant,  but  ought  not  to  be  over- curiously  pried 
into,  or  nicely  reasoned  upon.  And,  in  short,  their  father's 
authority  being  now  considerably  sunk,  this  expedient  was 
allowed  to  serve  as  a  lawful  dispensation  for  wearing  their  full 
proportion  of  silver  fringe. 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  65 

A  while  after  was  revived  an  old  fashion,  long  antiquated,  of 
embroidery  with  Indian  figures  of  men,  women,  and  children. 
Here  they  had  no  occasion  to  examine  the  will;  they  remem- 
bered but  too  well  how  their  father  had  always  abhorred  this 
fashion;  that  he  made  several  paragraphs  on  purpose,  import- 
ing his  utter  detestation  of  it,  and  bestowing  his  everlasting  curse 
to  his  sons,  whenever  they  should  wear  it.  For  all  this,  in  a  few 
days  they  appeared  higher  in  the  fashion  than  anybody  else  in 
the  town.  But  they  solved  the  matter  by  saying  that  these  fig- 
ures were  not  at  all  the  same  with  those  that  were  formerly  worn, 
and  were  meant  in  the  will.  Besides,  they  did  not  wear  them  in 
the  sense  as  forbidden  by  their  father,  but  as  they  were  a  com- 
mendable custom,  and  of  great  use  to  the  public.  That  these 
rigorous  clauses  in  the  will  did  therefore  require  some  allowance, 
and  a  favorable  interpretation,  and  ought  to  be  understood 
cum  grano  sails. 

But  fashions  perpetually  altering  in  that  age,  the  scholastic 
brother  grew  weary  of  searching  farther  evasions,  and  solving 
everlasting  contradictions.  Resolved,  therefore,  at  all  hazards, 
to  comply  with  the  modes  of  the  world,  they  concerted  matters 
together,  and  agreed  unanimously  to  lock  up  their  father's  will 
in  a  strong  box,  brought  out  of  Greece  or  Italy,  I  have  forgotten 
which,  and  trouble  themselves  no  farther  to  examine  it,  but 
only  refer  to  its  authority  whenever  they  thought  fit.  In  con- 
sequence whereof,  a  while  after  it  grew  a  general  mode  to 
wear  an  infinite  number  of  points,  most  of  them  tagged  with 
silver;  upon  which,  the  scholar  pronounced  ex  catJiedra  that 
points  were  absolutely  jure  paterno,  as  they  might  very  well  re- 
member. It  is  true,  indeed,  the  fashion  prescribed  somewhat 
more  than  were  directly  named  in  the  will;  however,  that  they, 
as  heirs-general  of  their  father,  had  power  to  make  and  add 
certain  clauses  for  public  emolument,  though  not  deducible, 
tolidem  verbis,  from  the  letter  of  the  will,  or  else  multa  absurda 
sequerentur.  This  was  understood  for  canonical,  and  therefore, 
on  the  following  Sunday,  they  came  to  church  all  covered  with 
points. 

The  learned  brother,  so  often  mentioned,  was  reckoned  the 
best  scholar  in  all  that,  or  the  next  street  to  it;  insomuch  as, 
having  run  something  behind-hand  in  the  world,  he  obtained 
the  favor  of  a  certain  lord  to  receive  him  into  his  house,  and  tc 


66  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

teach  his  children.  A  while  after  the  lord  died,  and  he,  by  long 
practice  of  his  father's  will,  found  the  way  of  contriving  a  deed 
of  conveyance  of  that  house  to  himself  and  his  heirs;  upon  which 
he  took  possession,  turned  the  young  squires  out,  and  received 
his  brothers  in  their  stead. 

I  have  now,  with  much  pains  and  study,  conducted  the  reader 
to  a  period  where  he  must  expect  to  hear  of  great  revolutions. 
For  no  sooner  had  our  learned  brother,  so  often  mentioned,  got 
a  warm  house  of  his  own  over  his  head,  than  he  began  to  look 
big,  and  take  mightily  upon  him;  insomuch  that  unless  the  gen- 
tle reader,  out  of  his  great  candor,  will  please  a  little  to  exalt  his 
idea,  I  am  afraid  he  will  henceforth  hardly  know  the  hero  of  the 
play,  when  he  happens  to  meet  him ;  his  part,  his  dress,  and  his 
mien  being  so  much  altered. 

He  told  his  brothers,  he  would  have  them  to  know  that  he 
was  their  elder,  and  consequently  his  father's  sole  heir;  nay,  a 
while  after,  he  would  not  allow  them  to  call  him  brother,  but 
Mr.  Peter;  and  then  he  must  be  styled  Father  Peter;  and  some- 
times, My  Lord  Peter.  .  .  . 

In  short,  Peter  grew  so  scandalous  that  all  the  neighborhood 
began  in  plain  words  to  say  he  was  no  better  than  a  knave. 
And  his  two  brothers,  long  weary  of  his  ill  usage,  resolved  at  last 
to  leave  him;  but  first  they  humbly  desired  a  copy  of  their 
father's  will,  which  had  now  lain  by  neglected  time  out  of  mind. 
Instead  of  granting  this  request,  he  called  them  damned  sons  of 
whores,  rogues,  traitors,  and  the  rest  of  the  vile  names  he  could 
muster  up.  However,  while  he  was  abroad  one  day  upon  his 
projects,  the  two  youngsters  watched  their  opportunity,  made 
a  shift  to  come  at  the  will,  and  took  a  copia  vera,1  by  which  they 
presently  saw  how  grossly  they  had  been  abused;  their  father 
having  left  them  equal  heirs,  and  strictly  commanded  that  what- 
ever they  got  should  lie  in  common  among  them  all.  Pursuant 
to  which,  their  next  enterprise  was  to  break  open  the  cellar- 
door,  and  get  a  little  good  drink,  to  spirit  and  comfort  their 
hearts. .  .  .  While  all  this  was  in  agitation,  there  enters  a  solicitor 
from  Newgate,  desiring  Lord  Peter  would  please  procure  a  par- 
don for  a  thief  that  was  to  be  hanged  to-morrow.  But  the  two 
brothers  told  him  he  was  a  coxcomb  to  seek  pardons  from  a 
fellow  who  deserved  to  be  hanged  much  better  than  his  client, 

1  True  copy. 


A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  67 

and  discovered  all  the  method  of  that  imposture,  in  the  same 
form  I  delivered  it  a  while  ago,  advising  the  solicitor  to  put  his 
friend  upon  obtaining  a  pardon  from  the  king.  In  the  midst  of 
all  this  clutter  and  revolution,  in  comes  Peter  with  a  file  of  dra- 
goons at  his  heels,  and,  gathering  from  all  hands  what  was  in 
the  wind,  he  and  his  gang,  after  several  millions  of  scurrilities 
and  curses,  not  very  important  here  to  repeat,  by  main  force 
very  fairly  kicked  them  both  out  of  doors,  and  would  never  let 
them  come  under  his  roof  from  that  day  to  this.  .  .  . 

The  two  exiles,  so  nearly  united  in  fortune  and  interest,  took 
a  lodging  together;  where,  at  their  first  leisure,  they  began  to 
reflect  on  the  numberless  misfortunes  and  vexations  of  their 
past  life,  and  could  not  tell  on  the  sudden  to  what  failure  in  their 
conduct  they  ought  to  impute  them;  when,  after  some  recollec- 
tion, they  called  to  mind  the  copy  of  their  father's  will,  which 
they  had  so  happily  recovered.  This  was  immediately  pro- 
duced, and  a  firm  resolution  taken  between  them  to  alter  what- 
ever was  already  amiss,  and  reduce  all  their  future  measures  to 
the  strictest  obedience  prescribed  therein.  The  main  body  of 
the  will  (as  the  reader  cannot  easily  have  forgot)  consisted  in 
certain  admirable  rules  about  the  wearing  of  their  coats ;  in  the 
perusal  whereof,  the  two  brothers,  at  every  period,  duly  com- 
paring the  doctrine  with  the  practice,  there  was  never  seen  a 
wider  difference  between  two  things,  — -  horrible  downright 
transgressions  of  every  point.  Upon  which  they  both  resolved, 
without  further  delay,  to  fall  immediately  upon  reducing  the 
whole,  exactly  after  their  father's  model. 

But  here  it  is  good  to  stop  the  hasty  reader,  ever  impatient 
to  see  the  end  of  an  adventure,  before  we  writers  can  duly  pre- 
pare him  for  it.  I  am  to  record  that  these  two  brothers  began 
to  be  distinguished  at  this  time  by  certain  names.  One  of  them 
desired  to  be  called  Martin,  and  the  other  took  the  appellation 
of  Jack.  These  two  had  lived  in  much  friendship  and  agreement 
under  the  tyranny  of  their  brother  Peter,  as  it  is  the  talent  of 
fellow-sufferers  to  do,  —  men  in  misfortune  being  like  men  in 
the  dark,  to  whom  all  colors  are  the  same;  but  when  they  came 
iorward  into  the  world,  and  began  to  display  themselves  to  each 
other,  and  to  the  light,  their  complexions  appeared  extremely 
different;  which  the  present  posture  of  their  affairs  gave  them 
sudden  opportunity  to  discover. 


68  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

But  here  the  severe  reader  may  justly  tax  me  as  a  writer  of 
short  memory,  a  deficiency  to  which  a  true  modern  cannot  but, 
of  necessity,  be  a  little  subject.  Because  memory,  being  an  em- 
ployment of  the  mind  upon  things  past,  is  a  faculty  for  which 
the  learned  in  our  illustrious  age  have  no  manner  of  occasion, 
who  deal  entirely  with  invention,  and  strike  all  things  out  of 
themselves,  or  at  least  by  collision  from  each  other;  upon  which 
account  we  think  it  highly  reasonable  to  produce  our  great  for- 
getfulness  as  an  argument  unanswerable  for  our  great  wit.  I 
ought  in  method  to  have  informed  the  reader,  about  fifty  pages 
ago,  of  a  fancy  Lord  Peter  took,  and  infused  into  his  brothers, 
to  wear  on  their  coats  whatever  trimmings  came  up  in  fashion; 
never  pulling  off  any,  as  they  went  out  of  the  mode,  but  keeping 
on  all  together,  which  amounted  in  time  to  a  medley  the  most 
antic  you  can  possibly  conceive;  and  this  to  a  degree  that,  upon 
the  time  of  their  falling  out,  there  was  hardly  a  thread  of  the 
original  coat  to  be  seen,  but  an  infinite  quantity  of  lace  and  rib- 
bons, and  fringe,  and  embroidery,  and  points,  —  I  mean  only 
those  tagged  with  silver,  for  the  rest  fell  off.  Now  this  material 
circumstance,  having  been  forgot  in  due  place,  as  good  fortune 
hath  ordered,  comes  in  very  properly  here,  when  the  two  bro- 
thers are  just  going  to  reform  their  vestures  into  the  primitive 
state  prescribed  by  their  father's  will. 

They  both  unanimously  entered  upon  this  great  work,  look- 
ing sometimes  on  their  coats,  and  sometimes  on  the  will.  Mar- 
tin laid  the  first  hand;  at  one  twitch  brought  off  a  large  handful 
of  points,  and  with  a  second  pull  stripped  away  ten  dozen  yards 
of  fringe.  But  when  he  had  gone  thus  far,  he  demurred  a  while. 
He  knew  very  well  there  yet  remained  a  great  deal  more  to  be 
done;  however,  the  first  heat  being  over,  his  violence  began  to 
cool,  and  he  resolved  to  proceed  more  moderately  in  the  rest  of 
the  work;  having  already  narrowly  escaped  a  swinging  rent  in 
pulling  off  the  points,  which,  being  tagged  with  silver  (as  we 
have  observed  before),  the  judicious  workman  had,  with  much 
sagacity,  double  sewn,  to  preserve  them  from  falling.  Resolv- 
ing therefore  to  rid  his  coat  of  a  huge  quantity  of  gold  lace,  he 
picked  up  the  stitches  with  much  caution,  and  diligently  gleaned 
out  all  the  loose  threads  as  he  went,  which  proved  to  be  a  work 
of  time.  Then  he  fell  about  the  embroidered  Indian  figures  of 
men,  women,  and  children,  against  which,  as  you  have  heard  in 


A  TALE   OF  A  TUB  69 

its  due  place,  their  father's  testament  was  extremely  exact  and 
severe;  these,  with  much  dexterity  and  application,  were,  after 
a  while,  quite  eradicated,  or  utterly  defaced.  For  the  rest, 
where  he  observed  the  embroidery  to  be  worked  so  close  as  not 
to  be  got  away  without  damaging  the  cloth,  or  where  it  served 
to  hide  or  strengthen  any  flaw  in  the  body  of  the  coat,  con- 
tracted by  the  perpetual  tampering  of  workmen  upon  it,  he  con- 
cluded the  wisest  course  was  to  let  it  remain,  resolving  in  no 
case  whatsoever  that  the  substance  of  the  stuff  should  suffer 
injury;  which  he  thought  the  best  method  for  serving  the  true 
intent  and  meaning  of  his  father's  will.  And  this  is  the  nearest 
account  I  have  been  able  to  collect  of  Martin's  proceedings 
upon  this  great  revolution. 

But  his  brother  Jack,  whose  adventures  will  be  so  extraordi- 
nary as  to  furnish  a  great  part  in  the  remainder  of  this  discourse, 
entered  upon  the  matter  with  other  thoughts,  and  a  quite  differ- 
ent spirit.  For  the  memory  of  Lord  Peter's  injuries  produced 
a  degree  of  hatred  and  spite,  which  had  a  much  greater  share  of 
inciting  him  than  any  regards  after  his  father's  commands,  since 
these  appeared,  at  best,  only  secondary  and  subservient  to  the 
other.  .  .  .  Having  thus  kindled  and  inflamed  himself  as  high 
as  possible,  and  by  consequence  in  a  delicate  temper  for  begin- 
ning a  reformation,  he  set  about  the  work  immediately,  and  in 
three  minutes  made  more  dispatch  than  Martin  had  done  in  as 
many  hours.  For,  courteous  reader,  you  are  given  to  under- 
stand that  zeal  is  never  so  highly  obliged  as  when  you  set  it 
a-tearing ;  and  Jack,  who  doted  on  that  quality  in  himself, 
allowed  it  at  this  time  its  full  swing.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
stripping  down  a  parcel  of  gold  lace  a  little  too  hastily,  he  rent 
the  main  body  of  his  coat  from  top  to  bottom;  and,  whereas  his 
talent  was  not  of  the  happiest  in  taking  up  a  stitch,  he  knew  no 
better  way  than  to  darn  it  again  with  packthread  and  a  skewer. 
But  the  matter  was  yet  infinitely  worse  (I  record  it  with  tears) 
when  he  proceeded  to  the  embroidery;  for,  being  clumsy  by  na- 
ture, and  of  temper  impatient,  —  withal,  beholding  millions  of 
stitches  that  required  the  nicest  hand,  and  sedatest  constitu- 
tion, to  extricate,  —  in  a  great  rage  he  tore  off  the  whole  piece, 
cloth  and  all,  and  flung  it  into  the  kennel;  and  furiously  thus 
continuing  his  career,  — "Ah,  good  brother  Martin,"  said  he, 
"  do  as  I  do,  for  the  love  of  God!  Strip,  tear,  pull,  rend,  flay  oQ. 


70  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

all,  that  we  may  appear  as  unlike  the  rogue  Peter  as  it  is  possi- 
ble. I  would  not,  for  a  hundred  pounds,  carry  the  least  mark 
about  me,  that  might  give  occasion  to  the  neighbors  of  sus- 
pecting that  I  was  related  to  such  a  rascal."  .  .  . 

Jack  had  provided  a  fair  copy  of  his  father's  will,  engrossed 
in  form  upon  a  large  skin  of  parchment;  and,  resolving  to  act 
the  part  of  a  most  dutiful  son,  be  became  the  fondest  creature 
of  it  imaginable.  For  although,  as  I  have  often  told  the  reader, 
it  consisted  wholly  in  certain  plain,  easy  directions,  about  the 
management  and  wearing  of  their  coats,  with  legacies  and  pen- 
alties in  case  of  obedience  or  neglect,  yet  he  began  to  entertain 
a  fancy  that  the  matter  was  deeper  and  darker,  and  therefore 
must  needs  have  a  great  deal  more  of  mystery  at  the  bottom. 
"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "I  will  prove  this  very  skin  of  parch- 
ment to  be  meat,  drink,  and  cloth;  to  be  the  philosopher's 
stone,  and  the  universal  medicine."  In  consequence  of  which 
raptures  he  resolved  to  make  use  of  it  in  the  most  necessary, 
as  well  as  the  most  paltry  occasions  of  life.  He  had  a  way  of 
working  it  into  any  shape  he  pleased,  so  that  it  served  him  for 
a  nightcap  when  he  went  to  bed,  and  for  an  umbrella  in  rainy 
weather.  He  would  lap  a  piece  of  it  about  a  sore  toe,  or,  when 
he  had  fits,  burn  two  inches  under  his  nose;  or,  if  anything  lay 
heavy  on  his  stomach,  scrape  off,  and  swallow  as  much  of  the 
powder  as  would  lie  on  a  silver  penny;  they  were  all  infallible 
remedies.  With  analogy  to  these  refinements,  his  common  talk 
and  conversation  ran  wholly  in  the  phrase  of  his  will,  and  he 
circumscribed  the  'utmost  of  his  eloquence  within  that  com- 
pass, not  daring  to  let  slip  a  syllable  without  authority  from 
thence. 

He  made  it  a  part  of  his  religion  never  to  say  grace  to  his 
meat;  nor  could  all  the  world  persuade  him,  as  the  common 
phrase  is,  to  eat  his  victuals  like  a  Christian. 

He  bore  a  strange  kind  of  appetite  to  snap-dragon,  and  to 
the  livid  snuffs  of  a  burning  candle,  which  he  would  catch  and 
swallow  with  an  agility  wonderful  to  conceive;  and,  by  this  pro- 
cedure, maintained  a  perpetual  flame  in  his  belly,  which,  issuing 
in  a  glowing  steam  from  both  his  eyes,  as  well  as  his  nostrils 
and  his  mouth,  made  his  head  appear  in  a  dark  night  like  the 
skull  of  an  ass,  wherein  a  roguish  boy  hath  conveyed  a  farthing 
candle,  to  the  terror  of  His  Majesty's  liege  subjects.  Therefore 


A  TALE   OF  A  TUB  71 

he  made  use  of  no  other  expedient  to  light  himself  home,  but 
was  wont  to  say  that  a  wise  man  was  his  own  lantern. 

He  would  shut  his  eyes  as  he  walked  along  the  streets,  and  if 
he  happened  to  bounce  his  head  against  a  post,  or  fall  into  a 
kennel  (as  he  seldom  missed  either  to  do  one  or  both),  he  would 
tell  the  gibing  prentices,  who  looked  on,  that  he  submitted  with 
entire  resignation,  as  to  a  trip,  or  a  blow  of  fate,  with  whom  he 
found,  by  long  experience,  how  vain  it  was  either  to  wrestle  or 
to  cuff;  and  whoever  durst  undertake  to  do  either,  would  be  sure 
to  come  off  with  a  swinging  fall,  or  a  bloody  nose.  "  It  was  or- 
dained," said  he,  "  some  few  days  before  the  creation,  that  my 
nose  and  this  very  post  should  have  a  rencounter ;  and  therefore 
nature  thought  fit  to  send  us  both  into  the  world  in  the  same 
age,  and  to  make  us  countrymen  and  fellow-citizens.  Now  had 
my  eyes  been  open,  it  is  very  likely  the  business  might  have 
been  a  great  deal  worse;  for  how  many  a  confounded  slip  is 
daily  got  by  a  man  with  all  his  foresight  about  him?  Besides, 
the  eyes  of  the  understanding  see  best,  when  those  of  the  senses 
are  out  of  the  way;  and  therefore  blind  men  are  observed  to 
tread  their  steps  with  much  more  caution,  and  conduct,  and 
judgment,  than  those  who  rely  with  too  much  confidence  upon 
the  virtue  of  the  visual  nerve,  which  every  little  accident  shakes 
out  of  order,  and  a  drop,  or  a  film,  can  wholly  disconcert;  —  like 
a  lantern  among  a  pack  of  roaring  bullies  when  they  scour  the 
streets,  exposing  its  owner  and  itself  to  outward  kicks  and 
buffets,  which  both  might  have  escaped,  if  the  vanity  of  ap- 
pearing would  have  suffered  them  to  walk  in  the  dark.  But 
further,  if  we  examine  the  conduct  of  these  boasted  lights,  it 
will  prove  yet  a  great  deal  worse  than  their  fortune.  'T  is  true, 
I  have  broke  my  nose  against  this  post,  because  Providence 
either  forgot,  or  did  not  think  it  convenient,  to  twitch  me  by 
the  elbow,  and  give  me  notice  to  avoid  it.  But  let  not  this  en- 
courage either  the  present  age,  or  posterity,  to  trust  their  noses 
into  the  keeping  of  their  eyes,  which  may  prove  the  fairest  way 
of  losing  them  for  good  and  all.  For,  O  ye  eyes,  ye  blind 
guides!  miserable  guardians  are  ye  of  our  frail  noses;  ye,  I  say, 
who  fasten  upon  the  first  precipice  in  view,  and  then  tow  our 
wretched  willing  bodies  after  you,  to  the  very  brink  of  destruc- 
tion; but,  alas!  that  brink  is  rotten,  our  feet  slip,  and  we  tum- 
ble down  prone  into  a  gulf,  without  one  hospitable  shrub  in  the 


72  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

way  to  break  the  fall;  a  fall,  to  which  not  any  nose  of  mortal 
make  is  equal,  except  that  of  the  giant  Laurcalco,  who  was  lord 
of  the  silver  bridge.  Most  properly  therefore,  O  eyes!  and  with 
great  justice,  may  you  be  compared  to  those  foolish  lights 
which  conduct  men  through  dirt  and  darkness,  till  they  fall  into 
a  deep  pit  or  a  noisome  bog." 

This  I  have  produced  as  a  scantling  of  Jack's  great  eloquence, 
and  the  force  of  his  reasoning  upon  such  abtruse  matters.  .  .  . 

A  DIGRESSION  CONCERNING  THE   ORIGINAL,   THE  USE,   AND   IM- 
PROVEMENT   OF   MADNESS,    IN   A   COMMONWEALTH 

.  .  .  The  reader  will,  I  am  sure,  agree  with  me  in  the  conclu- 
sion that,  if  the  moderns  mean  by  madness  only  a  disturbance 
.or  transposition  of  the  brain,  by  force  of  certain  vapors  issuing 
up  from  the  lower  faculties,  then  hath  this  madness  been  the 
parent  of  all  those  mighty  revolutions  that  have  happened  in 
empire,  philosophy,  and  in  religion.  For  the  brain,  in  its  na- 
tural position  and  state  of  serenity,  disposes  its  owner  to  pass 
his  life  in  the  common  forms,  without  any  thoughts  of  subduing 
multitudes  to  his  own  power,  his  reasons,  or  his  visions;  and  the 
more  he  shapes  his  understanding  by  the  pattern  of  human 
learning,  the  less  he  is  inclined  to  form  parties,  after  his  particu- 
lar notions,  because  that  instructs  him  in  his  private  infirmities, 
as  well  as  in  the  stubborn  ignorance  of  the  people. 

But  when  a  man's  fancy  gets  astride  on  his  reason,  when  im- 
agination is  at  cuffs  with  the  senses,  and  common  understand- 
ing, as  well  as  common  sense,  is  kicked  out  of  doors,  the  first 
proselyte  he  makes  is  himself;  and  when  that  is  once  compassed, 
the  difficulty  is  not  so  great  in  bringing  over  others,  a  strong 
delusion  always  operating  from  without  as  vigorously  as  from 
within.  For  cant  and  vision  are  to  the  ear  and  the  eye  the 
same  that  tickling  is  to  the  touch.  Those  entertainments  and 
pleasures  we  most  value  in  life  are  such  as  dupe  and  play  the 
wag  with  the  senses.  For,  if  we  take  an  examination  of  what  is 
generally  understood  by  happiness,  as  it  hath  respect  either  to 
the  understanding  or  the  senses,  we  shall  find  all  its  properties 
and  adjuncts  will  herd  under  this  short  definition,  —  that  it  is 
a  perpetual  possession  of  being  well  deceived.  And,  first,  with 
relation  to  the  mind  or  understanding,  'tis  manifest  what 
mighty  advantages  fiction  has  over  truth;  and  the  reason  is  just 


A  TALE   OF  A  TUB  73 

at  our  elbow,  —  because  imagination  can  build  nobler  scenes, 
and  produce  more  wonderful  revolutions,  than  fortune  or  na- 
ture will  be  at  expense  to  furnish.  Nor  is  mankind  so  much  to 
blame  in  his  choice,  thus  determining  him,  if  we  consider  that 
the  debate  merely  lies  between  things  past  and  things  con- 
ceived; and  so  the  question  is  only  this,  —  whether  things  that 
have  place  in  the  imagination  may  not  as  properly  be  said  to 
exist  as  those  that  are  seated  in  the  memory;  which  may  be 
justly  held  in  the  affirmative,  and  very  much  to  the  advantage 
of  the  former,  since  this  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  womb  of 
things,  and  the  other  allowed  to  be  no  more  than  the  grave. 
Again,  if  we  take  this  definition  of  happiness,  and  examine  it 
with  reference  to  the  senses,  it  will  be  acknowledged  wonder- 
fully adapt.  How  fading  and  insipid  do  all  objects  accost  us, 
that  are  not  conveyed  in  the  vehicle  of  delusion !  How  shrunk 
is  everything,  as  it  appears  in  the  glass  of  nature!  So  that  if  it 
were  not  for  the  assistance  of  artificial  mediums,  false  lights, 
refracted  angles,  varnish  and  tinsel,  there  would  be  a  mighty 
level  in  the  felicity  and  enjoyments  of  mortal  men.  If  this 
were  seriously  considered  by  the  world,  as  I  have  a  certain  rea- 
son to  suspect  it  hardly  will,  men  would  no  longer  reckon 
among  their  high  points  of  wisdom,  the  art  of  exposing  weak 
sides,  and  publishing  infirmities,  —  an  employment,  in  my 
opinion,  neither  better  nor  worse  than  that  of  unmasking, 
which,  I  think,  has  never  been  allowed  1  fair  usage,  either  in 
the  world  or  the  playhouse. 

In  the  proportion  that  credulity  is  a  more  peaceful  posses- 
sion of  the  mind  than  curiosity,  so  far  preferable  is  that  wisdom 
which  converses  about  the  surface,  to  that  pretended  philosophy 
which  enters  into  the  depth  of  things,  and  then  comes  gravely 
back  with  informations  and  discoveries  that  in  the  inside  they 
are  good  for  nothing.  The  two  senses  to  which  all  objects  first 
address  themselves  are  the  sight  and  the  touch;  these  never 
examine  farther  than  the  color,  the  shape,  the  size,  and  what- 
ever other  qualities  dwell,  or  are  drawn  by  art,  upon  the  out- 
ward of  bodies;  and  then  comes  reason  officiously,  with  tools 
for  cutting  and  opening  and  mangling  and  piercing,  offering  to 
demonstrate  that  they  are  not  of  the  same  consistence  quite 
through.  Now  I  take  all  this  to  be  the  last  degree  of  pervert- 

1  Considered  (to  be). 


74  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

ing  nature,  one  of  whose  eternal  laws  it  is,  to  put  her  best  furni- 
ture forward.  And  therefore,  in  order  to  save  the  charges  of  all 
such  expensive  anatomy  for  the  time  to  come,  I  do  here  think 
fit  to  inform  the  reader  that,  in  such  conclusions  as  these,  rea- 
son is  certainly  in  the  right,  and  that  in  most  corporeal  beings 
which  have  fallen  under  my  cognizance,  the  outside  has  been 
infinitely  preferable  to  the  in;  whereof  I  have  been  farther 
convinced  from  some  late  experiments.  Last  week  I  saw  a  wo- 
man flayed,  and  you  will  hardly  believe  how  much  it  altered  her 
person  for  the  worse.  Yesterday  I  ordered  the  carcase  of  a  beau 
to  be  stripped  in  my  presence,  when  we  were  all  amazed  to  find 
so  many  unsuspected  faults  under  one  suit  of  clothes.  Then  I 
laid  open  his  brain,  his  heart,  and  his  spleen;  but  I  plainly  per- 
ceived at  every  operation,  that  the  farther  we  proceeded,  we 
found  the  defects  increase  upon  us  in  number  and  bulk.  From 
all  which,  I  justly  formed  this  conclusion  to  myself,  that  what- 
ever philosopher  or  projector  can  find  out  an  art  to  solder  and 
patch  up  the  flaws  and  imperfections  of  nature,  will  deserve 
much  better  of  mankind,  and  teach  us  a  more  useful  science, 
than  that  so  much  in  present  esteem,  of  widening  and  exposing 
them,  like  him  who  held  anatomy  to  be  the  ultimate  end  of 
physic.  And  he  whose  fortunes  and  dispositions  have  placed 
him  in  a  convenient  station  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  this  noble  art, 
—  he  that  can,  with  Epicurus,  content  his  ideas  with  the  films 
and  images  that  fly  off  upon  his  senses  from  the  superficies  of 
things,  —  such  a  man,  truly  wise,  creams  off  nature,  leaving 
the  sour  and  the  dregs  for  philosophy  and  reason  to  lap  up.  This 
is  the  sublime  and  refined  point  of  felicity,  called  the  posses- 
sion of  being  well  deceived,  —  the  serene,  peaceful  state  of  be- 
ing a  fool  among  knaves. 

But  to  return  to  madness.  It  is  certain  that,  according  to  the 
system  I  have  above  deduced,  every  species  thereof  proceeds 
from  a  redundancy  of  vapors.  Therefore,  as  some  kinds  of 
frenzy  give  double  strength  to  the  sinews,  so  there  are  of  other 
species  which  add  vigor,  and  life,  and  spirit  to  the  brain.  Now 
it  usually  happens  that  these  active  spirits,  getting  possession 
of  the  brain,  resemble  those  that  haunt  other  waste  and  empty 
dwellings,  which,  for  want  of  business,  either  vanish,  and  carry 
away  a  piece  of  the  house,  or  else  stay  at  home  and  fling  it  all 
out  of  the  windows.  By  which  are  mystically  displayed  two 


A  TALE    OF  A  TUB  75 

principal  branches  of  madness,  and  which  some  philosophers, 
not  considering  so  well  as  I,  have  mistook  to  be  different  in 
their  causes,  over-hastily  assigning  the  first  to  deficiency  and 
the  other  to  redundance. 

I  think  it  therefore  manifest,  from  what  I  have  here  advanced, 
that  the  main  point  of  skill  and  address  is  to  furnish  employ- 
ment for  this  redundancy  of  vapor,  and  prudently  to  adjust  the 
seasons  of  it;  by  which  means  it  may  certainly  become  of  car- 
dinal and  catholic  emolument  in  a  commonwealth.  Thus  one 
man,  choosing  a  proper  juncture,  leaps  into  a  gulf,  from  thence 
proceeds  a  hero,  and  is  called  the  savior  of  his  country;  another 
achieves  the  same  enterprise,  but,  unluckily  timing  it,  has  left 
the  brand  of  madness  fixed  as  a  reproach  upon  his  memory. 
Upon  so  nice  a  distinction  are  we  taught  to  repeat  the  name  of 
Curtius  with  reverence  and  love,  that  of  Empedocles  with  hatred 
and  contempt.  Thus  also  it  is  usually  conceived  that  the  elder 
Brutus  only  personated  the  fool  and  madman  for  the  good  of 
the  public ;  but  this  was  nothing  else  than  a  redundancy  of  the 
same  vapor  long  misapplied,  called  by  the  Latins  ingenium 
par  negotiis,  —  or,  to  translate  it  as  nearly  as  I  can,  a  sort  of 
frenzy,  never  in  its  right  element,  till  you  take  it  up  in  business 
of  the  state. 

Upon  all  which,  and  many  other  reasons  of  equal  weight, 
though  not  equally  curious,  I  do  here  gladly  embrace  an  oppor- 
tunity I  have  long  sought  for,  of  recommending  it  as  a  very 
noble  undertaking  to  Sir  Edward  Seymour,  Sir  Christopher 
Musgrave,  Sir  John  Bowls,  John  How,  Esq.,1  and  other  patriots 
concerned,  that  they  would  move  for  leave  to  bring  in  a  bill  for 
appointing  commissioners  to  inspect  into  Bedlam2  and  the  parts 
adjacent;  who  shall  be  empowered  to  send  for  persons,  papers, 
and  records;  to  examine  into  the  merits  and  qualifications  of 
every  student  and  professor ;  to  observe  with  utmost  exactness 
their  several  dispositions  and  behavior;  by  which  means  duly 
distinguishing  and  adapting  their  talents,  they  might  produce 
admirable  instruments  for  the  several  offices  in  a  state.  .  .  . 

Is  any  student  tearing  his  straw  in  piecemeal,  swearing  and 
blaspheming,  biting  his  grate,  foaming  at  the  mouth?  Let  the 
right  worshipful  the  Commissioners  of  Inspection  give  him  a 
regiment  of  dragoons,  and  send  him  into  Flanders  among  the 

1  Leading  Tories.  2  The  insane  asylum. 


76  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

rest.  Is  another  eternally  talking,  sputtering,  gaping,  bawling, 
in  a  sound  without  period  or  article?  What  wonderful  talents 
are  here  mislaid!  Let  him  be  furnished  immediately  with  a 
green  bag  and  papers,  and  threepence  in  his  pocket,  and  away 
with  him  to  Westminster  Hall.1  .  .  .  Accost  the  hole  of  an- 
other kennel  (first  stopping  your  nose),  you  will  behold  a  surly, 
gloomy,  nasty,  slovenly  mortal.  The  student  of  this  apartment 
is  very  sparing  of  his  words,  but  somewhat  over-liberal  of  his 
breath;  he  holds  his  hand  out  ready  to  receive  your  penny,  and 
immediately  upon  receipt  withdraws  to  his  former  occupations. 
Now  is  it  not  amazing  to  think  the  Society  of  Warwick  Lane 2 
should  have  no  more  concern  for  the  recovery  of  so  useful  a 
member?  who,  if  one  may  judge  from  these  appearances,  would 
become  the  greatest  ornament  to  that  illustrious  body?  .  .  . 


AN   ARGUMENT   TO    PROVE  'THAT 
THE  ABOLISHING  OF  CHRISTIANITY  IN  ENGLAND 

MAY,    AS    THINGS    NOW    STAND,    BE    ATTENDED    WITH 
SOME     INCONVENIENCES,     AND     PERHAPS     NOT 
PRODUCE   THOSE   MANY  GOOD   EFFECTS 
PROPOSED    THEREBY 

1708 

[This  was  one  of  several  pamphlets  by  Swift  on  religious  subjects  which 
appeared  in  1708.  It  represents  his  work  in  defense  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, especially  as  opposed  to  the  Deists,  who  at  this  time  were  becoming 
influential,  as  the  Tale  of  a  Tub  had  been  directed  against  Roman  Catholics 
and  Dissenters.  Leading  deistical  writers  are  referred  to  in  the  tract:  To- 
land,  author  of  Christianity  not  Mysterious  (1695),  a^d  Tindal,  author  of 
Rights  of  the  Christian  Church  (1706) ;  together  with  Dr.  William  Coward, 
who  had  published  an  essay  denying  immortality  (1702).  For  the  stu- 
dent of  literature  the  importance  of  the  pamphlet  is  in  its  exhibition  of 
Swift's  masterful  irony.l 

I  AM  very  sensible  what  a  weakness  and  presumption  it  is  to 
reason  against  the  general  humor  and  disposition  of  the  world. 
I  remember  it  was  with  great  justice,  and  due  regard  to  the 
freedom  both  of  the  public  and  the  press,  forbidden  upon  sev- 
eral penalties  to  write,  or  discourse,  or  lay  wagers  against  the 
Union,  even  before  it  was  confirmed  by  Parliament,  because 

1  Where  the  law  courts  sat.  *  The  College  of  Physicians. 


THE   ABOLISHING  OF  CHRISTIANITY         77 

that  was  looked  upon  as  a  design  to  oppose  the  current  of  the 
people,  —  which,  besides  the  folly  of  it,  is  a  manifest  breach  of 
the  fundamental  law  that  makes  this  majority  of  opinion  the 
voice  of  God.  In  like  manner,  and  for  the  very  same  reasons,  it 
may  perhaps  be  neither  safe  nor  prudent  to  argue  against  the 
abolishing  of  Christianity,  at  a  juncture  when  all  parties  seem 
so  unanimously  determined  upon  the  point,  as  we  cannot  but 
allow  from  their  actions,  their  discourses,  and  their  writings. 
However,  I  know  not  how,  whether  from  the  affectation  of  sin- 
gularity, or  the  perverseness  of  human  nature,  but  so  it  unhap- 
pily falls  out,  that  I  cannot  be  entirely  of  this  opinion.  Nay, 
though  I  were  sure  an  order  were  issued  for  my  immediate  pro- 
secution by  the  Attorney-General,  I  should  still  confess  that, 
in  the  present  posture  of  our  affairs  at  home  or  abroad,  I  do  not 
yet  see  the  absolute  necessity  of  extirpating  the  Christian  re- 
ligion from  among  us. 

This  may  perhaps  appear  too  great  a  paradox  even  for  our 
wise  and  paradoxical  age  to  endure;  therefore  I  shall  handle  it 
with  all  tenderness, 'and  with  the  utmost  deference  to  that  great 
and  profound  majority  which  is  of  another  sentiment. 

And  yet  the  curious  may  please  to  observe  how  much  the 
genius  of  a  nation  is  liable  to  alter  in  half  an  age.  I  have  heard 
it  affirmed  for  certain,  by  some  very  old  people,  that  the  con- 
trary opinion  was  even  in  their  memories  as  much  in  vogue  as 
the  other  is  now,  and  that  a  project  for  the  abolishing  of  Chris- 
tianity would  then  have  appeared  as  singular,  and  been  thought 
as  absurd,  as  it  would  be  at  this  time  to  write  or  discourse  in 
its  defense. 

Therefore  I  freely  own  that  all  appearances  are  against  me. 
The  system  of  the  gospel,  after  the  fate  of  other  systems,  is  gen- 
erally antiquated  and  exploded;  and  the  mass  or  body  of  the 
common  people,  among  whom  it  seems  to  have  had  its  latest 
credit,  are  now  grown  as  much  ashamed  of  it  as  their  betters; 
opinions,  like  fashions,  always  descending  from  those  of  quality 
to  the  middle  sort,  and  thence  to  the  vulgar,  where  at  length 
they  are  dropped  and  vanish. 

But  here  I  would  not  be  mistaken,  and  must  therefore  be  so 
bold  as  to  borrow  a  distinction  from  the  writers  on  the  other 
side,  when  they  make  a  difference  between  nominal  and  real 
Trinitarians.  I  hope  no  reader  imagines  me  so  weak  to  stand 


78  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

up  in  the  defense  of  real  Christianity,  such  as  used,  in  primitive 
times  (if  we  may  believe  the  authors  of  those  ages),  to  have  an 
influence  upon  men's  belief  and  actions.  To  offer  at  the  restor- 
ing of  that,  would  indeed  be  a  wild  project;  it  would  be  to  dig 
up  foundations;  to  destroy,  at  one  blow,  all  the  wit,  and  half 
the  learning,  of  the  kingdom ;  to  break  the  entire  frame  and  con- 
stitution of  things;  to  ruin  trade,  extinguish  arts  and  sciences, 
with  the  professors  of  them;  in  short,  to  turn  our  courts,  ex- 
changes, and  shops,  into  deserts;  and  would  be  full  as  absurd  as 
the  proposal  of  Horace,  where  he  advises  the  Romans,  all  in  a 
body,  to  leave  their  city,  and  seek  a  new  seat  in  some  remote 
part  of  the  world,  by  way  of  cure  for  the  corruption  of  their 
manners. 

Therefore  I  think  this  caution  was  in  itself  altogether  unne- 
cessary (which  I  have  inserted  only  to  prevent  all  possibility  of 
caviling) ,  since  every  candid  reader  will  easily  understand  my 
discourse  to  be  intended  only  in  defense  of  nominal  Christian- 
ity; the  other  having  been  for  some  time  wholly  laid  aside  by 
general  consent,  as  utterly  inconsistent  with  our  present  schemes 
of  wealth  and  power. 

But  why  we  should  therefore  cast  off  the  name  and  title  of 
Christians,  although  the  general  opinion  and  resolution  be  so 
violent  for  it,  I  confess  I  cannot  (with  submission)  apprehend; 
nor  is  the  consequence  necessary.  However,  since  the  under- 
takers propose  such  wonderful  advantages  to  the  nation  by  this 
project,  and  advance  many  plausible  objections  against  the 
system  of  Christianity,  I  shall  briefly  consider  the  strength  of 
both,  fairly  allow  them  their  greatest  weight,  and  offer  such 
answers  as  I  think  most  reasonable.  After  which  I  will  beg 
leave  to  show  what  inconveniences  may  possibly  happen  by 
such  an  innovation,  in  the  present  posture  of  our  affairs. 

First,  one  great  advantage  proposed  by  the  abolishing  of 
Christianity  is,  that  it  would  very  much  enlarge  and  establish 
liberty  of  conscience,  that  great  bulwark  of  our  nation,  and  of 
the  Protestant  religion,  which  is  still  too  much  limited  by  priest- 
craft, notwithstanding  all  the  good  intentions  of  the  legisla- 
ture, as  we  have  lately  found  by  a  severe  instance.  For  it  is 
confidently  reported  that  two  young  gentlemen  of  real  hopes, 
bright  wit,  and  profound  judgment,  who,  upon  a  thorough 
examination  of  causes  and  effects,  and  by  the  mere  force  of 


THE  ABOLISHING  OF  CHRISTIANITY  79 

natural  abilities,  without  the  least  tincture  of  learning,  having 
made  a  discovery  that  there  was  no  God,  and  generously  com- 
municating their  thoughts  for  the  good  of  the  public,  were 
some  time  ago,  by  an  unparalleled  severity,  and  upon  I  know 
not  what  obsolete  law,  broke1  for  blasphemy.  And,  as  it  has 
been  wisely  observed,  if  persecution  once  begins,  no  man  alive 
knows  how  far  it  may  reach,  or  where  it  will  end. 

In  answer  to  all  which,  with  deference  to  wiser  judgments,  I 
think  this  rather  shows  the  necessity  of  a  nominal  religion 
among  us.  Great  wits  love  to  be  free  with  the  highest  objects; 
and  if  they  cannot  be  allowed  a  God  to  revile  or  renounce,  they 
will  speak  evil  of  dignities,  abuse  the  government,  and  reflect 
upon  the  ministry;  which  I  am  sure  few  will  deny  to  be  of  much 
more  pernicious  consequence,  —  according  to  the  saying  of 
Tiberius,  deorum  ojjensa  diis  curcz.2  As  to  the  particular  fact 
related,  I  think  it  is  not  fair  to  argue  from  one  instance;  per- 
haps another  cannot  be  produced;  yet  (to  the  comfort  of  all 
those  who  may  be  apprehensive  of  persecution)  blasphemy,  we 
know,  is  freely  spoken  a  million  of  times  in  every  coffeehouse 
and  tavern,  or  wherever  else  good  company  meet.  It  must  be 
allowed,  indeed,  that  to  break  an  English  free-born  officer,  only 
for  blasphemy,  was,  to  speak  the  gentlest  of  such  an  action,  a 
very  high  strain  of  absolute  power.  Little  can  be  said  in  excuse 
for  the  general;  perhaps  he  was  afraid  it  might  give  offense  to 
the  allies,  among  whom,  for  aught  we  know,  it  may  be  the  cus- 
tom of  the  country  to  believe  a  God.  But  if  he  argued,  as  some 
have  done,  upon  a  mistaken  principle,  that  an  officer  who  is 
guilty  of  speaking  blasphemy  may  some  time  or  other  proceed 
so  far  as  to  raise  a  mutiny,  the  consequence  is  by  no  means  to 
be  admitted;  for  surely  the  commander  of  an  English  army  is 
likely  to  be  but  ill  obeyed,  whose  soldiers  fear  and  reverence 
him  as  little  as  they  do  a  Deity. 

It  is  farther  objected  against  the  gospel  system,  that  it 
obliges  men  to  the  belief  of  things  too  difficult  for  free-thinkers, 
and  such  who  have  shaken  off  the  prejudices  that  usually  cling 
to  a  confined  education.  To  which  I  answer,  that  men  should 
be  cautious  how  they  raise  objections  which  reflect  upon  the 
wisdom  of  the  nation.  Is  not  everybody  freely  allowed  to  be- 
lieve whatever  he  pleases,  and  to  publish  his  belief  to  the  world 

1  Cashiered.  *  "Wrongs  done  to  the  gods  are  the  gods'  concern." 


So  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

whenever  he  thinks  fit,  especially  if  it  serves  to  strengthen  the 
party  which  is  in  the  right?  Would  any  indifferent  foreigner, 
who  should  read  the  trumpery  lately  written  by  Asgill, l  Tindal, 
Toland,  Coward,  and  forty  more,  imagine  the  gospel  to  be  our 
rule  of  faith,  and  confirmed  by  parliaments?  Does  any  man 
either  believe,  or  say  he  believes,  or  desire  to  have  it  thought 
that  he  says  he  believes,  one  syllable  of  the  matter?  And  is  any 
man  worse  received  upon  that  score,  or  does  he  find  his  want  of 
nominal  faith  a  disadvantage  to  him,  in  the  pursuit  of  any  civil 
or  military  employment?  What  if  there  be  an  old  doimant 
statute  or  two  against  him,  are  they  not  now  obsolete  to  a  de- 
gree that  Empson  and  Dudley 2  themselves,  if  they  were  now 
alive,  would  find  it  impossible  to  put  them  in  execution  ? 

It  is  likewise  urged  that  there  are,  by  computation,  in  this 
kingdom,  above  ten  thousand  parsons,  whose  revenues,  added 
to  those  of  my  lords  the  bishops,  would  suffice  to  maintain  at 
least  two  hundred  young  gentlemen  of  wit  and  pleasure  and 
free-thinking,  enemies  to  priestcraft,  narrow  principles,  pedan- 
try, and  prejudices,  who  might  be  an  ornament  to  the  court 
and  town;  and  then  again,  so  great  a  number  of  able  (bodied) 
divines  might  be  a  recruit  to  our  fleet  and  armies.  This  indeed 
appears  to  be  a  consideration  of  some  weight;  but  then,  on  the 
other  side,  several  things  deserve  to  be  considered  likewise:  as 
first,  whether  it  may  not  be  thought  necessary  that  in  certain 
tracts  of  country,  like  what  we  call  parishes,  there  shall  be  one 
man  at  least  of  abilities  to  read  and  write.  Then  it  seems  a 
wrong  computation  that  the  revenues  of  the  church  through- 
out this  island  would  be  large  enough  to  maintain  two  hundred 
young  gentlemen,  or  even  half  that  number,  after  the  present 
refined  way  of  living,  —  that  is,  to  allow  each  of  them  such  a 
rent  as,  in  the  modern  form  of  speech,  would  make  them  easy. 
But  still  there  is  in  this  project  a  greater  mischief  behind;  and 
we  ought  to  beware  of  the  woman's  folly  who  killed  the  hen  that 
every  morning  laid  her  a  golden  egg.  For  pray  what  would  be- 
come of  the  race  of  men  in  the  next  age,  if  we  had  nothing  to 
trust  beside  the  scrofulous,  consumptive  productions,  furnished 
by  our  men  of  wit  and  pleasure,  when,  having  squandered  away 
their  vigor,  health,  and  estates,  they  are  forced,  by  some  dis- 

1  An  eccentric  writer,  whose  book  called  An  Argument  to  prove  that  death  is  not  obliga* 
wry  on  Christians,  was  burned  by  order  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
*  Extortionate  tax-collectors  for  Henry  VII. 


THE  ABOLISHING  OF  CHRISTIANITY          81 

agreeable  marriage,  to  piece  up  their  broken  fortunes,  and  entail 
rottenness  and  politeness  on  their  posterity?  Now,  here  are  ten 
thousand  persons  reduced,  by  the  wise  regulations  of  Henry 
the  Eighth, l  to  the  necessity  of  a  low  diet  and  moderate  exercise, 
who  are  the  only  great  restorers  of  our  breed,  without  which 
the  nation  would,  in  an  age  or  two,  become  one  great  hospital. 

Another  advantage  proposed  by  the  abolishing  of  Christian- 
ity is  the  clear  gain  of  one  day  in  seven,  which  is  now  entirely 
lost,  and  consequently  the  kingdom  one  seventh  less  consider- 
able in  trade,  business,  and  pleasure;  beside  the  loss  to  the  pub- 
lic of  so  many  stately  structures,  now  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
which  might  be  converted  into  playhouses,  market-houses,  ex- 
changes, common  dormitories,  and  other  public  edifices. 

I  hope  I  shall  be  forgiven  a  hard  word,  if  I  call  this  a  perfect 
cavil.  I  readily  own  there  has  been  an  old  custom,  time  out  of 
mind,  for  people  to  assemble  in  the  churches  every  Sunday,  and 
that  shops  are  still  frequently  shut,  in  order,  as  it  is  conceived, 
to  preserve  the  memory  of  that  ancient  practice ;  but  how  this 
can  prove  a  hindrance  to  business  or  pleasure,  is  hard  to  imagine. 
What  if  the  men  of  pleasure  are  forced,  one  day  in  the  week, 
to  game  at  home  instead  of  the  chocolate-houses  ?  are  not  the 
taverns  and  coffee-houses  open  ?  Can  there  be  a  more  conven- 
ient season  for  taking  a  dose  of  physic  ?  Is  not  that  the  chief 
day  for  traders  to  sum  up  the  accounts  of  the  week,  and  for  law- 
yers to  prepare  their  briefs  ?  But  I  would  fain  know  how  it  can 
be  pretended  that  the  churches  are  misapplied  ?  Where  are 
more  appointments  and  rendezvouses  of  gallantry?  Where 
more  care  to  appear  in  the  foremost  box,  with  greater  advan- 
tage of  dress  ?  where  more  meetings  for  business  ?  where  more 
bargains  driven  of  all  sorts  ?  and  where  so  many  conveniences 
or  enticements  to  sleep  ? 

There  is  one  advantage,  greater  than  any  of  the  foregoing, 
proposed  by  the  abolishing  of  Christianity,  —  that  it  will  ut- 
terly extinguish  parties  among  us,  by  removing  those  factious 
distinctions  of  high  and  low  church,  of  Whig,  and  Tory,  Presby- 
terian and  Church  of  England,  which  are  now  so  many  griev- 
ous clogs  upon  public  proceedings,  and  are  apt  to  dispose  men 
to  prefer  the  gratifying  of  themselves,  or  depressing  of  their  ad- 
versaries, before  the  most  important  interest  of  the  state. 

1  Depriving  the  church  of  its  revenues. 


82  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

I  confess,  if  it  were  certain  that  so  great  an  advantage  would 
redound  to  the  nation  by  this  expedient,  I  would  submit  and  be 
silent;  but  will  any  man  say  that  if  the  words  whoring,  drinking, 
cheating,  lying,  stealing  were  by  Act  of  Parliament  ejected  out 
of  the  English  tongue  and  dictionaries,  we  should  all  awake  next 
morning  chaste  and  temperate,  honest  and  just,  and  lovers  of 
truth  ?  Is  this  a  fair  consequence  ?  Or,  if  the  physicians  would 
forbid  us  to  pronounce  the  words  gout,  rheumatism,  and  stone, 
would  that  expedient  serve,  like  so  many  talismans,  to  destroy 
the  diseases  themselves  ?  Are  party  and  faction  in  men's  hearts 
no  deeper  than  phrases  borrowed  from  religion,  or  founded 
upon  no  firmer  principles  ?  And  is  our  language  so  poor  that  we 
cannot  find  other  terms  to  express  them  ?  Are  envy,  pride,  avar- 
ice, and  ambition  such  ill  nomenclators  that  they  cannot  furnish 
appellations  for  their  owners  ?  Will  not  hey  dukes  and  mame- 
lukes,  mandarins,  and  patshaws,  or  any  other  words  formed  at 
pleasure,  serve  to  distinguish  those  who  are  in  the  ministry 
from  others  who  would  be  in  it  if  they  could  ?  What,  for  in- 
stance, is  easier  than  to  vary  the  form  of  speech,  and  instead  of 
the  word  church,  make  it  a  question  in  politics,  whether  the 
Monument  be  in  danger  ?  Because  religion  was  nearest  at  hand 
to  furnish  a  few  convenient  phrases,  is  our  invention  so  barren 
we  can  find  no  other  ?  Suppose,  for  argument  sake,  that  the  To- 
ries favored  Margarita,  the  Whigs  Mrs.  Tofts,  and  the  trim- 
mers Valentini;1  would  not  Margaritians,  Toftians,  and  Valen- 
tinians  be  very  tolerable  marks  of  distinction?  The  Prasini  and 
Veniti,  two  most  virulent  factions  in  Italy,  began  (if  I  remember 
right)  by  a  distinction  of  colors  in  ribbons;  and  we  might  con- 
tend with  as  good  a  grace  about  the  dignity  of  the  blue  and  the 
green,  which  would  serve  as  properly  to  divide  the  court,  the 
parliament,  and  the  kingdom,  between  them,  as  any  terms  of 
art  whatsoever,  borrowed  from  religion.  And  therefore  I  think 
there  is  little  force  in  this  objection  against  Christianity,  or 
prospect  of  so  great  an  advantage  as  is  proposed  in  the  abolish- 
ing of  it. 

It  is  again  objected,  as  a  very  absurd,  ridiculous  custom,  that 
&  set  of  men  should  be  suffered,  much  less  employed  and  hired, 
to  bawl  one  day  in  seven  against  the  lawfulness  of  those  meth- 
ods most  in  use,  toward  the  pursuit  of  greatness,  riches,  and 

1  Opera  singers  of  the  period. 


THE  ABOLISHING   OF   CHRISTIANITY         83 

pleasure,  which  are  the  constant  practice  of  all  men  alive  on  the 
other  six.  But  this  objection  is,  I  think,  a  little  unworthy  of  so 
refined  an  age  as  ours.  Let  us  argue  this  matter  calmly:  I  ap- 
peal to  the  breast  of  any  polite  free-thinker,  whether,  in  the 
pursuit  of  gratifying  a  predominant  passion,  he  has  not  always 
a  wonderful  incitement,  by  reflecting  it  was  a  thing  forbidden ; 
and  therefore  we  see,  in  order  to  cultivate  this  taste,  the  wis- 
dom of  the  nation  has  taken  special  care  that  the  ladies  should 
be  furnished  with  prohibited  silks,  and  the  men  with  prohibited 
wine.  And  indeed  it  were  to  be  wished  that  some  other  pro- 
hibitions were  promoted,  in  order  to  improve  the  pleasures  of 
the  town;  which,  for  want  of  such  expedients,  begin  already,  as 
I  am  told,  to  flag  and  grow  languid,  giving  way  daily  to  cruel 
inroads  from  the  spleen. 

It  is  likewise  proposed  as  a  great  advantage  to  the  public, 
that,  if  we  once  discard  the  system  of  the  gospel,  all  religion  will 
of  course  be  banished  for  ever;  and  consequently,  along  with  it. 
those  grievous  prejudices  of  education,  which,  under  the  names 
of  virtue,  conscience,  honor,  justice,  and  the  like,  are  so  apt  to  dis- 
turb the  peace  of  human  minds,  and  the  notions  whereof  are  so 
hard  to  be  eradicated,  by  right  reason,  or  free-thinking,  some- 
times during  the  whole  course  of  our  lives. 

Here  first  I  observe,  how  difficult  it  is  to  get  rid  of  a  phrase 
which  the  world  is  once  grown  fond  of,  though  the  occasion  that 
first  produced  it  be  entirely  taken  away.  For  several  years  past, 
if  a  man  had  but  an  ill-favored  nose,  the  deep  thinkers  of  the 
age  would,  some  way  or  other,  contrive  to  impute  the  cause  to 
the  prejudice  of  his  education.  From  this  fountain  were  said 
to  be  derived  all  our  foolish  notions  of  justice,  piety,  love  of  our 
country;  all  our  opinions  of  God,  or  a  future  state,  heaven,  hell, 
and  the  like;  and  there  might  formerly  perhaps  have  been  some 
pretence  for  this  charge.  But  so  effectual  care  has  been  taken 
to  remove  those  prejudices,  by  an  entire  change  in  the  methods 
of  education,  that  (with  honor  I  mention  it  to  our  polite  inno- 
vators) the  young  gentlemen  who  are  now  on  the  scene  seem  to 
have  not  the  least  tincture  left  of  those  infusions,  or  string  of 
those  weeds;  and,  by  consequence,  the  reason  for  abolishing 
nominal  Christianity  upon  that  pretext  is  wholly  ceased. 

For  the  rest,  it  may  perhaps  admit  a  controversy,  whether 
the  banishing  of  all  notions  of  religion  whatsoever,  would  be 


34  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

convenient  for  the  vulgar.  Not  that  I  am  in  the  least  of  opin- 
ion with  those  who  hold  religion  to  have  been  the  invention  of 
politicians,  to  keep  the  lower  part  of  the  world  in  awe,  by  the 
fear  of  invisible  powers ;  unless  mankind  were  then  very  differ- 
ent to  what  it  is  now ;  for  I  look  upon  the  mass  or  body  of  our 
people  here  in  England,  to  be  as  free  thinkers,  that  is  to  say,  as 
staunch  unbelievers,  as  any  of  the  highest  rank.  But  I  con- 
ceive some  scattered  notions  about  a  superior  power  to  be  of 
singular  use  for  the  common  people,  as  furnishing  excellent  ma- 
terials to  keep  children  quiet  when  they  grow  peevish,  and  pro- 
viding topics  of  amusement  in  a  tedious  winter  night. 

Lastly,  it  is  proposed,  as  a  singular  advantage,  that  the  abol- 
ishing of  Christianity  will  very  much  contribute  to  the  uniting 
of  Protestants,  by  enlarging  the  terms  of  communion,  so  as  to 
take  in  all  sorts  of  dissenters,  who  are  now  shut  out  of  the  pale, 
upon  account  of  a  few  ceremonies  which  all  sides  confess  to  be 
things  indifferent;  that  this  alone  will  effectually  answer  the 
great  ends  of  a  scheme  for  comprehension,  by  opening  a  large 
noble  gate,  at  which  all  bodies  may  enter;  whereas  the  chaffer- 
ing with  dissenters,  and  dodging  about  this  or  the  other  cere- 
mony, is  but  like  opening  a  few  wickets,  and  leaving  them  at 
jar,  by  which  no  more  than  one  can  get  in  at  a  time,  and  that 
not  without  stooping,  and  sidling,  and  squeezing  his  body. 

To  all  this  I  answer  that  there  is  one  darling  inclination  of 
mankind,  which  usually  affects  to  be  a  retainer  to  religion, 
though  she  be  neither  its  parent,  its  godmother,  or  its  friend; 
I  mean  the  spirit  of  opposition,  that  lived  long  before  Chris- 
tianity, and  can  easily  subsist  without  it.  Let  us,  for  instance, 
examine  wherein  the  opposition  of  sectaries  among  us  con- 
sists; we  shall  find  Christianity  to  have  no  share  in  it  at  all. 
Does  the  gospel  anywhere  prescribe  a  starched,  squeezed  coun- 
tenance, a  stiff,  formal  gait,  a  singularity  of  manners  and  habit, 
or  any  affected  modes  of  speech,  different  from  the  reasonable 
part  of  mankind  ?  Yet,  if  Christianity  did  not  lend  its  name 
to  stand  in  the  gap,  and  to  employ  or  divert  these  humors,  they 
must  of  necessity  be  spent  in  contraventions  to  the  laws  of  the 
land,  and  disturbance  of  the  public  peace.  There  is  a  portion  of 
enthusiasm  assigned  to  every  nation,  which,  if  it  has  not  proper 
objects  to  work  on,  will  burst  out,  and  set  all  in  a  flame.  If  the 
quiet  of  a  state  can  be  bought,  by  only  flinging  men  a  few  cere- 


THE  ABOLISHING   OF   CHRISTIANITY         85 

monies  to  devour,  it  is  a  purchase  no  wise  man  would  refuse. 
Let  the  mastiffs  amuse  themselves  about  a  sheep's  skin  stuffed 
with  hay,  provided  it  will  keep  them  from  worrying  the  flock. 
The  constitution  of  convents  abroad  seems,  in  one  point,  a  strain 
of  great  wisdom ;  there  being  few  irregularities  in  human  pas- 
sions that  may  not  have  recourse  to  vent  themselves  in  some 
of  those  orders,  which  are  so  many  retreats  for  the  speculative, 
the  melancholy,  the  proud,  the  silent,  the  politic,  and  the  mo- 
rose, to  spend  themselves,  and  evaporate  the  noxious  parti- 
cles; for  each  of  whom  we,  in  this  island,  are  forced  to  provide 
a  several  sect  of  religion,  to  keep  them  quiet;  and  whenever 
Christianity  shall  be  abolished,  the  legislature  must  find  some 
other  expedient  to  employ  and  entertain  them.  For  what  im- 
ports it  how  large  a  gate  you  open,  if  there  will  be  always  left  a 
number  who  place  a  pride  and  a  merit  in  refusing  to  enter  ? 

Having  thus  considered  the  most  important  objections 
against  Christianity,  and  the  chief  advantages  proposed  by  the 
abolishing  thereof,  I  shall  now,  with  equal  deference  and  sub- 
mission to  wiser  judgments,  as  before,  proceed  to  mention  a  few 
inconveniences  that  may  happen,  if  the  gospel  should  be  re- 
pealed, which  perhaps  the  projectors  may  not  have  sufficiently 
considered. 

And  first,  I  am  very  sensible  how  much  the  gentlemen  of  wit 
and  pleasure  are  apt  to  murmur  and  be  shocked  at  the  sight  of 
so  many  daggled-tail  parsons,  who  happen  to  fall  in  their  way, 
and  offend  their  eyes;  but  at  the  same  time  these  wise  reform- 
ers do  not  consider  what  an  advantage  and  felicity  it  is  for  great 
wits  to  be  always  provided  with  objects  of  scorn  and  contempt, 
in  order  to  exercise  and  improve  their  talents,  and  divert  their 
spleen  from  falling  on  each  other,  or  on  themselves;  especially 
when  all  this  may  be  done  without  the  least  imaginable  danger 
to  their  persons. 

And  to  urge  another  argument  of  a  parallel  nature:  if  Chris- 
tianity were  once  abolished,  how  could  the  free-thinkers,  the 
strong  reasoners,  and  the  men  of  profound  learning,  be  able  to 
find  another  subject,  so  calculated  in  all  points,  whereon  to  dis- 
play their  abilities  ?  What  wonderful  productions  of  wit  should 
we  be  deprived  of,  from  those  whose  genius,  by  continual  prac- 
tice, has  been  wholly  turned  upon  raillery  and  invectives  against 
religion,  and  would  therefore  never  be  able  to  shine  or  distin- 


86  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

guish  themselves  upon  any  other  subject !  We  are  daily  com- 
plaining of  the  great  decline  of  wit  among  us,  and  would  we 
take  away  the  greatest,  perhaps  the  only  topic,  we  have  left  ? 
Who  would  ever  have  suspected  Asgill  for  a  wit,  or  Toland  for 
a  philosopher,  if  the  inexhaustible  stock  of  Christianity  had  not 
been  at  hand,  to  provide  them  with  materials  ?  What  other  sub- 
ject, through  all  art  or  nature,  could  have  produced  Tindal  for  a 
profound  author,  or  furnished  him  with  readers  ?  It  is  the  wise 
choice  of  the  subject,  that  alone  adorns  and  distinguishes  the 
writer.  For  had  a  hundred  such  pens  as  these  been  employed 
on  the  side  of  religion,  they  would  have  immediately  sunk  into 
silence  and  oblivion.  .  .  . 

And  therefore,  if  notwithstanding  all  I  have  said  it  still  be 
thought  necessary  to  have  a  bill  brought  in  for  repealing  Chris- 
tianity, I  would  humbly  offer  an  amendment,  that,  instead  of 
the  word  Christianity,  may  be  put  religion  in  general;  which,  I 
conceive,  will  much  better  answer  all  the  good  ends  proposed 
by  the  projectors  of  it.  For,  as  long  as  we  leave  in  being  a  God 
and  His  providence,  with  all  the  necessary  consequences  which 
curious  and  inquisitive  men  will  be  apt  to  draw  from  such  pre- 
mises, we  do  not  strike  at  the  root  of  the  evil,  though  we  should 
ever  so  effectually  annihilate  the  present  scheme  of  the  gospel. 
For  of  what  use  is  freedom  of  thought,  if  it  will  not  produce 
freedom  of  action  ?  —  which  is  the  sole  end,  how  remote  soever 
in  appearance,  of  all  objections  against  Christianity;  and  there- 
fore the  free-thinkers  consider  it  as  a  sort  of  edifice,  wherein  all 
the  parts  have  such  a  mutual  dependence  on  each  other,  that  if 
you  happen  to  pull  out  one  single  nail,  the  whole  fabric  must 
fall  to  the  ground.  This  was  happily  expressed  by  him  who  had 
heard  of  a  text  brought  for  proof  of  the  Trinity,  which  in  an  an- 
cient manuscript  was  differently  read;  he  thereupon  immedi- 
ately took  the  hint,  and,  by  a  sudden  deduction  of  a  long  sorites, 
most  logically  concluded :  "  Why,  if  it  be  as  you  say,  I  may  safely 
whore  and  drink  on,  and  defy  the  parson."  From  which,  and 
many  the  like  instances  easy  to  be  produced,  I  think  nothing 
can  be  more  manifest,  than  that  the  quarrel  is  not  against  any 
particular  points  of  hard  digestion  in  the  Christian  system, 
but  against  religion  in  general;  which,  by  laying  restraints  on 
human  nature,  is  supposed  the  great  enemy  to  the  freedom  of 
thought  and  action. 


THE   ENGLISH   TONGUE  87 

Upon  the  whole,  if  it  shall  be  thought  for  the  benefit  of  church 
and  state  that  Christianity  be  abolished,  I  conceive,  however, 
it  may  be  more  convenient  to  defer  the  execution  to  a  time  of 
peace;  and  not  venture,  in  this  conjuncture,  to  disoblige  our 
allies,  who,  as  it  falls  out,  are  all  Christians,  and  many  of  them, 
by  the  prejudices  of  their  education,  so  bigoted  as  to  place  a 
sort  of  pride  in  the  appellation.  If,  upon  being  rejected  by 
them,  we  are  to  trust  an  alliance  with  the  Turk,  we  shall  find 
ourselves  much  deceived :  for,  as  he  is  too  remote,  and  generally 
engaged  in  war  with  the  Persian  Emperor,  so  his  people  would 
be  more  scandalized  at  our  infidelity  than  our  Christian  neigh- 
bors. For  the  Turks  are  not  only  strict  observers  of  religious 
worship,  but,  what  is  worse,  believe  a  God,  —  which  is  more 
than  is  required  of  us,  even  while  we  preserve  the  name  of  Chris- 
tians. 

To  conclude :  whatever  some  may  think  of  the  great  advan- 
tages to  trade  by  this  favorite  scheme,  I  do  very  much  appre- 
hend that  in  six  months'  time  after  the  act  is  passed  for  the  ex- 
tirpation of  the  gospel,  the  Bank  and  East  India  stock  may  fall 
at  least  one  per  cent.  And  since  that  is  fifty  times  more  than 
ever  the  wisdom  of  our  age  thought  fit  to  venture  for  the  pre- 
servation of  Christianity,  there  is  no  reason  we  should  be  at  so 
great  a  loss,  merely  for  the  sake  of  destroying  it. 


A  PROPOSAL  FOR  CORRECTING,  IMPROVING,  AND 
ASCERTAINING  THE   ENGLISH  TONGUE 

IN  A  LETTER  TO  THE  MOST  HONORABLE  ROBERT,  EARL 
OF  OXFORD  AND  MORTIMER,  LORD  HIGH  TREASURER 
OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 

1712 

[This  was  the  first  of  Swift's  publications  which  appeared  over  his  ac- 
knowledged name.  His  correspondence  shows  that  he  took  his  proposal 
very  seriously;  but  nothing  came  of  it.  It  was  sagaciously  criticised 
by  Dr.  Johnson  in  his  Life  of  Swift.] 

.  .  .  The  period  wherein  the  English  tongue  received  most 
Improvement,  I  take  to  commence  with  the  beginning  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  reign,  and  to  conclude  with  the  great  rebellion  in 


88  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

forty-two.  It  is  true  there  was  a  very  ill  taste,  both  of  style 
and  wit,  which  prevailed  under  King  James  the  First,  but  that 
seems  to  have  been  corrected  in  the  first  years  of  his  successor, 
who,  among  many  other  qualifications  of  an  excellent  prince, 
was  a  great  patron  of  learning.  From  the  Civil  War  to  this 
present  time,  I  am  apt  to  doubt  whether  the  corruptions  in  our 
language  have  not  at  least  equaled  the  refinements  of  it,  and 
these  corruptions  very  few  of  the  best  authors  in  our  age  have 
wholly  escaped. 

During  the  usurpation,  such  an  infusion  of  enthusiastic  jargon 
prevailed  in  every  writing,  as  was  not  shaken  off  in  many  years 
after.  To  this  succeeded  that  licentiousness  which  entered 
with  the  Restoration,  and,  from  infecting  our  religion  and  mor- 
als, fell  to  corrupt  our  language ;  which  last  was  not  likely  to  be 
much  improved  by  those  who  at  that  time  made  up  the  court  of 
King  Charles  the  Second,  —  either  such  who  had  followed  him 
in  his  banishment,  or  who  had  been  altogether  conversant  in 
the  dialect  of  those  fanatic  times,  or  young  men,  who  had  been 
educated  in  the  same  country;  so  that  the  court,  which  used  to 
be  the  standard  of  propriety  and  correctness  of  speech,  was 
then,  and,  I  think,  has  ever  since  continued,  the  worst  school 
in  England  for  that  accomplishment,  and  so  will  remain  till  bet- 
ter care  be  taken  in  the  education  of  our  young  nobility,  that 
they  may  set  out  into  the  world  with  some  foundation  of  litera- 
ture, in  order  to  qualify  them  for  patterns  of  politeness.  The 
consequence  of  this  defect  upon  our  language  may  appear 
from  the  plays,  and  other  compositions  written  for  entertain- 
ment, within  fifty  years  past,  filled  with  a  succession  of  affected 
phrases,  and  new  conceited  words,  either  borrowed  from  the 
current  style  of  the  court,  or  from  those  who,  under  the  char- 
acter of  men  of  wit  and  pleasure,  pretended  to  give  the  law. 
Many  of  these  refinements  have  already  been  long  antiquated, 
and  are  now  hardly  intelligible,  —  which  is  no  wonder,  when 
they  were  the  product  only  of  ignorance  and  caprice. 

I  have  never  known  this  great  town  without  one  or  more 
dunces  of  figure,  who  had  credit  enough  to  give  rise  to  some 
new  word,  and  propagate  it  in  most  conversations,  though  it 
had  neither  humor  nor  significancy.  If  it  struck  the  present 
taste,  it  was  soon  transferred  into  the  plays  and  current  scrib- 
bles of  the  week,  and  became  an  addition  to  our  language;  while 


THE   ENGLISH   TONGUE  89 

the  men  of  wit  and  learning,  instead  of  early  obviating  such 
corruptions,  were  too  often  seduced  to  imitate  and  comply  with 
them. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  who  have  contributed  very 
much  to  the  spoiling  of  the  English  tongue;  I  mean  the  poets, 
from  the  time  of  the  Restoration.  These  gentlemen,  although 
they  could  not  be  insensible  how  much  our  language  was  al- 
ready overstocked  with  monosyllables,  yet,  to  save  time  and 
pains,  introduced  that  barbarous  custom  of  abbreviating  words 
to  fit  them  to  the  measure  of  their  verses;  and  this  they  have 
frequently  done  so  very  injudiciously  as  to  form  such  harsh, 
unharmonious  sounds,  that  none  but  a  northern  ear  could  en- 
dure. They  have  joined  the  most  obdurate  consonants  with 
one  intervening  vowel,  only  to  shorten  a  syllable;  and  their 
taste  in  time  became  so  depraved  that  what  was  at  first  a  poeti- 
cal license,  not  to  be  justified,  they  made  their  choice,  alleging 
that  words  pronounced  at  length  sounded  faint  and  languid. 
This  was  a  pretence  to  take  up  the  same  custom  in  prose,  so 
that  most  of  the  books  we  see  nowadays  are  full  of  those  man- 
glings  and  abbreviations.  Instances  of  this  abuse  are  innumer- 
able; what  does  your  lordship  think  of  the  words  drudg'd,  dis- 
turb'd,  rebuk'd,  fledg'd,  and  a  thousand  others  everywhere  to  be 
met  with  in  prose  as  well  as  verse  ?  —  where,  by  leaving  out  a 
vowel  to  save  a  syllable,  we  form  so  jarring  a  sound,  and  so  diffi- 
cult to  utter,  that  I  have  often  wondered  how  it  could  ever  ob- 
tain. 

Another  cause  (and  perhaps  borrowed  from  the  former) 
which  has  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  maiming  of  our  lan- 
guage, is  a  foolish  opinion,  advanced  of  late  years,  that  we 
ought  to  spell  exactly  as  we  speak;  which,  beside  the  obvious 
inconvenience  of  utterly  destroying  our  etymology,  would  be  a 
thing  we  should  never  see  an  end  of.  Not  only  the  several 
towns  and  counties  of  England  have  a  different  way  of  pro- 
nouncing, but  even  here  in  London  they  clip  their  words  after 
one  manner  about  the  court,  another  in  the  City,  and  a  third 
in  the  suburbs;  and  in  a  few  years,  it  is  probable,  will  all  differ 
from  themselves,  as  fancy  or  fashion  shall  direct,  —  all  which, 
reduced  to  writing,  would  entirely  confound  orthography.  Yet 
many  people  are  so  fond  of  this  conceit  that  it  is  sometimes  a 
difficult  matter  to  read  modern  books  and  pamphlets,  where 


90  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

the  words  are  so  curtailed,  and  varied  from  their  original  spell- 
ing, that  whoever  has  been  used  to  plain  English  will  hardly 
know  them  by  sight. 

Several  young  men  at  the  universities,  terribly  possessed 
with  the  fear  of  pedantry,  run  into  a  worse  extreme,  and  think 
all  politeness  to  consist  in  reading  the  daily  trash  sent  down 
to  them  from  hence;  this  they  call  knowing  the  world,  and  read- 
ing men  and  manners.  Thus  furnished,  they  come  up  to  town, 
reckon  all  their  errors  for  accomplishments,  borrow  the  newest 
set  of  phrases;  and,  if  they  take  a  pen  into  their  hands,  all  the 
odd  words  they  have  picked  up  in  a  coffee-house,  or  a  gaming 
ordinary,  are  produced  as  flowers  of  style,  —  and  the  ortho- 
graphy refined  to  the  utmost.  ...  To  this  we  owe  that  strange 
race  of  wits  who  tell  us  they  write  to  the  humor  of  the  age.  And 
I  wish  I  could  say  these  quaint  fopperies  were  wholly  absent 
from  graver  subjects.  In  short,  I  would  undertake  to  show 
your  lordship  several  pieces  where  the  beauties  of  this  kind  are 
so  predominant  that,  with  all  your  skill  in  languages,  you  could 
never  be  able  to  read  or  understand  them.  .  .  . 

In  order  to  reform  our  language,  I  conceive,  my  lord,  that  a 
free  judicious  choice  should  be  made  of  such  persons  as  are  gen- 
erally allowed  to  be  best  qualified  for  such  a  work,  without  any 
regard  to  quality,  party,  or  profession.  These,  to  a  certain  num- 
ber at  least,  should  assemble  at  some  appointed  time  and  place, 
and  fix  on  rules  by  which  they  design  to  proceed.  What  meth- 
ods they  will  take  is  not  for  me  to  prescribe.  Your  lordship, 
and  other  persons  in  great  employments,  might  please  to  be  of 
the  number;  and  I  am  afraid  such  a  society  would  want  your 
instruction  and  example,  as  much  as  your  protection,  for  I  have, 
not  without  a  little  envy,  observed  of  late  the  style  of  some 
great  ministers  very  much  to  exceed  that  of  any  other  produc- 
tions. 

The  persons  who  are  to  undertake  this  work  will  have  the  ex- 
ample of  the  French  before  them,  to  imitate  where  these  have 
proceeded  right,  and  to  avoid  their  mistakes.  Beside  the  gram- 
mar part,  wherein  we  are  allowed  to  be  very  defective,  they  will 
observe  many  gross  improprieties  which,  however  authorized 
by  practice,  and  grown  familiar,  ought  to  be  discarded.  They 
will  find  many  words  that  deserve  to  be  utterly  thrown  out  of 
our  language,  many  more  to  be  corrected,  and  perhaps  not  a 


THE   ENGLISH   TONGUE  91 

few  long  since  antiquated,  which  ought  to  be  restored  on  ac- 
count of  their  energy  and  sound. 

But  what  I  have  most  at  heart  is,  that  some  method  should 
be  thought  on  for  ascertaining  and  fixing  our  language  for  ever, 
after  such  alterations  are  made  in  it  as  shall  be  thought  requi- 
site. For  I  am  of  opinion  it  is  better  a  language  should  not  be 
wholly  perfect,  than  that  it  should  be  perpetually  changing; 
and  we  must  give  over  at  one  time,  or  at  length  infallibly 
change  for  the  worse;  as  the  Romans  did,  when  they  began  to 
quit  their  simplicity  of  style  for  affected  refinements,  such  as 
we  meet  in  Tacitus  and  other  authors,  which  ended  by  degrees 
in  many  barbarities,  even  before  the  Goths  had  invaded  Italy. 

The  fame  of  our  writers  is  usually  confined  to  these  two  is- 
lands, and  it  is  hard  it  should  be  limited  in  time,  as  much  as 
place,  by  the  perpetual  variations  of  our  speech.  It  is  your 
lordship's  observation,  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  Bible  and 
Common  Prayer  Book  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  we  should  hardly 
be  able  to  understand  anything  that  was  written  among  us  a 
hundred  years  ago;  which  is  certainly  true,  for  those  books,  be- 
ing perpetually  read  in  churches,  have  proved  a  kind  of  stand- 
ard for  language,  especially  to  the  common  people.  And  I  doubt 
whether  the  alterations  since  introduced  have  added  much  to 
the  beauty  or  strength  of  the  English  tongue,  though  they  have 
taken  off  a  great  deal  from  that  simplicity  which  is  one  of  the 
greatest  perfections  in  any  language.  You,  my  lord,  who  are  so 
conversant  in  the  sacred  writings,  and  so  great  a  judge  of  them 
in  their  originals,  will  agree  that  no  translation  our  country  ever 
yet  produced  has  come  up  to  that  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ment; and  by  the  many  beautiful  passages  which  I  have  often 
had  the  honor  to  hear  your  lordship  cite  from  thence,  I  am  per- 
suaded that  the  translators  of  the  Bible  were  masters  of  an 
English  style  much  fitter  for  that  work  than  any  we  see  in  our 
present  writings,  —  which  I  take  to  be  owing  to  the  simplicity 
that  runs  through  the  whole.  Then,  as  to  the  greatest  part  of 
our  liturgy,  compiled  long  before  the  translation  of  the  Bible 
now  in  use,  and  little  altered  since,  there  seem  to  be  in  it  as 
great  strains  of  true  sublime  eloquence  as  are  anywhere  to  be 
found  in  our  language,  which  every  man  of  good  taste  will  ob- 
serve in  the  communion  service,  that  of  burial,  and  other  parts. 

But  when  I  say  that  I  would  have  our  language,  after  it  is 


92  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

duly  correct,  always  to  last,  I  do  not  mean  that  it  should  never 
be  enlarged.  Provided  that  no  word  which  a  society  shall  give 
a  sanction  to,  be  afterward  antiquated  and  exploded,  they  may 
have  liberty  to  receive  whatever  new  ones  they  shall  find  occa- 
sion for;  because  then  the  old  books  will  yet  be  always  valuable 
according  to  their  intrinsic  worth,  and  not  thrown  aside  on  ac- 
count of  unintelligible  words  and  phrases,  which  appear  harsh 
and  uncouth  only  because  they  are  out  of  fashion.  Had  the 
Roman  tongue  continued  vulgar  in  that  city  till  this  time,  it 
would  have  been  absolutely  necessary,  from  the  mighty  changes 
that  have  been  made  in  law  and  religion,  from  the  many  terms 
of  art  required  in  trade  and  in  war,  from  the  new  inventions 
that  have  happened  in  the  world,  from  the  vast  spreading  of 
navigation  and  commerce,  with  many  other  obvious  circum- 
stances, to  have  made  great  additions  to  that  language;  yet  the 
ancients  would  still  have  been  read  and  understood  with  plea- 
sure and  ease.  The  Greek  tongue  received  many  enlargements 
between  the  time  of  Homer  and  that  of  Plutarch,  yet  the  former 
author  was  probably  as  well  understood  in  Trajan's  time  as  the 
latter.  What  Horace  says  of  words  going  off  and  perishing  like 
leaves,  and  new  ones  coming  in  their  place,  is  a  misfortune  he 
laments,  rather  than  a  thing  that  he  approves.  But  I  cannot 
see  why  this  should  be  absolutely  necessary;  or  if  it  were,  what 
would  have  become  of  his  monumentum  are  perennius  P1 

Writing  by  memory  only,  as  I  do  at  present,  I  would  gladly 
keep  within  my  depth,  and  therefore  shall  not  enter  into  farther 
particulars.  Neither  do  I  pretend  more  than  to  show  the  use- 
fulness of  this  design,  and  to  make  some  general  observations, 
leaving  the  rest  to  that  society,  which  I  hope  will  owe  its  in- 
stitution and  patronage  to  your  lordship.  Besides,  I  would 
willingly  avoid  repetition,  having,  about  a  year  ago,  com- 
municated to  the  public  much  of  what  I  had  to  offer  upon  this 
subject,  by  the  hands  of  an  ingenious  gentleman  who  for  a  long 
time  did  thrice  a  week  divert  or  instruct  the  kingdom  by  his 
papers,  and  is  supposed  to  pursue  the  same  design  at  present, 
under  the  title  of  Spectator.  This  author,  who  has  tried  the 
force  and  compass  of  our  language  with  so  much  success,  agrees 
entirely  with  me  in  most  of  my  sentiments  relating  to  it.  So  do 
the  greatest  part  of  the  men  of  wit  and  learning  whom  I  have 

1  "Monument  more  enduring  than  bronze." 


THE   ENGLISH  TONGUE  93 

had  the  happiness  to  converse  with;  and  therefore  I  imagine 
that  such  a  society  would  be  pretty  unanimous  in  the  main 
points.  .  .  . 

As  barbarous  and  ignorant  as  we  were  in  former  centuries, 
there  was  more  effectual  care  taken  by  our  ancestors  to  pre- 
serve the  memory  of  times  and  persons,  than  we  find  in  this  age 
of  learning  and  politeness,  as  we  are  pleased  to  call  it.  The  rude 
Latin  of  the  monks  is  still  very  intelligible ;  whereas,  had  their 
records  been  delivered  down  only  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  so  bar- 
ren and  so  barbarous,  so  subject  to  continual  succeeding  changes, 
they  could  not  now  be  understood,  unless  by  antiquaries  who 
make  it  their  study  to  expound  them.  And  we  must,  at  this 
day,  have  been  content  with  such  poor  abstracts  of  our  English 
story  as  laborious  men  of  low  genius  would  think  fit  to  give  us; 
and  even  these,  in  the  next  age,  would  be  likewise  swallowed 
up  in  succeeding  collections.  If  things  go  on  at  this  rate,  all  I 
can  promise  your  lordship  is,  that,  about  two  hundred  years 
hence,  some  painful  compiler,  who  will  be  at  the  trouble  of 
studying  old  language,  may  inform  the  world  that,  in  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne,  Robert,  Earl  of  Oxford,  a  very  wise  and  excel- 
lent man,  was  made  High  Treasurer,  and  saved  his  country, 
which  in  those  days  was  almost  ruined  by  a  foreign  war  and  a 
domestic  faction.  Thus  much  he  may  be  able  to  pick  out,  and 
willing  to  transfer  into  his  new  history;  but  the  rest  of  your  char- 
acter, which  I  or  any  other  writer  may  now  value  ourselves  by 
drawing,  and  the  particular  account  of  the  great  things  done 
under  your  ministry,  for  which  you  are  already  so  celebrated 
in  most  parts  of  Europe,  will  probably  be  dropped,  on  account 
of  the  antiquated  style  and  manner  they  are  delivered  in. 

How  then  shall  any  man,  who  has  a  genius  for  history  equal 
to  the  best  of  the  ancients,  be  able  to  undertake  such  a  work 
with  spirit  and  cheerfulness,  when  he  considers  that  he  will  be 
read  with  pleasure  but  a  very  few  years,  and,  in  an  age  or  two, 
shall  hardly  be  understood  without  an  interpreter?  This  is  like 
employing  an  excellent  statuary  to  work  upon  mouldering 
stone.  Those  who  apply  their  studies  to  preserve  the  memory 
of  others,  will  always  have  some  concern  for  their  own;  and  I 
believe  it  is  for  this  reason  that  so  few  writers  among  us,  of  any 
distinction,  have  turned  their  thoughts  to  such  a  discouraging 
employment;  for  the  best  English  historian  must  lie  under  this 


94  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

mortification,  —  that  when  his  style  grows  antiquated,  he  will 
be  only  considered  as  a  tedious  relater  of  facts,  and  perhaps 
consulted,  in  his  turn,  among  other  neglected  authors,  to  fur- 
nish materials  for  some  future  collector.  , 


TRAVELS   INTO  SEVERAL    REMOTE    NATIONS  OF 
THE  WORLD 

IN  FOUR  PARTS.  BY  LEMUEL  GULLIVER 
1726 

[This  book  had  been  begun  about  1720,  and  was  known  to  Swift's 
friends  sometime  before  its  publication.  It  appears  to  have  been  the  only 
one  of  his  works  for  which  he  received  pay,  —  £200,  obtained  through 
Pope's  intervention.  The  Travels  are  divided  into  four  parts:  A  Voyage  to 
Lilliput;  A  Voyage  to  Brobdingnag;  A  Voyage  to  Laputa,  Balnibarbi, 
Glubbdubdrib,  Luggnagg,  and  Japan;  A  Voyage  to  the  Country  of  the 
Houyhnhnms.  In  the  first  part  Swift  satirizes  humanity  by  representing 
it  as  appearing  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  creatures  very  much  smaller 
than  we;  in  the  second  part  by  representing  it  as  equally  contemptible 
when  viewed  through  the  other  end  of  the  telescope,  —  by  creatures  very 
much  larger;  in  the  third  part  he  satirizes  especially  the  intellectual  efforts 
of  the  race,  and  its  longings  for  immortality;  in  the  fourth  part  he  repre- 
sents humanity  as  infinitely  contemptible  from  the  standpoint  of  a  com- 
monwealth of  horses  (human  beings  appearing  in  the  loathsome  form  of 
"Yahoos").  The  first  two  parts  are  universally  known  as  brilliant  exam- 
ples of  circumstantial  fiction;  the  third  and  fourth  parts  are  less  attractive, 
but  more  characteristic,  from  the  increased  virulence  of  their  satire.  The 
following  extracts  are  from  the  Voyage  to  Laputa  and  Balnibarbi  (chap- 
ters n,  iv,  v)  and  the  Voyage  to  the  Houyhnhnms  (chapters  v  and  vi).l 

[LAPUTA] 

AT  my  alighting,  I  was  surrounded  with  a  crowd  of  people; 
but  those  who  stood  nearest  seemed  to  be  of  better  quality. 
They  beheld  me  with  all  the  marks  and  circumstances  of  won- 
der ;  neither,  indeed,  was  I  much  in  their  debt,  having  never 
till  then  seen  a  race  of  mortals  so  singular  in  their  shapes,  habits, 
and  countenances.  Their  heads  were  all  reclined  either  to  the 
right  or  the  left;  one  of  their  eyes  turned  inward,  and  the  other 
directly  up  to  the  zenith.  Their  outward  garments  were  adorned 
with  the  figures  of  suns,  moons,  and  stars,  interwoven  with 
those  of  fiddles,  flutes,  harps,  trumpets,  guitars,  harpsichords, 
and  many  other  instruments  of  music,  unknown  to  us  in  Eu- 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  95 

rope.  I  observed,  here  and  there,  many  in  the  habit  of  ser- 
vants, with  a  blown  bladder  fastened  like  a  flail  to  the  end  of  a 
short  stick,  which  they  carried  in  their  hands.  In  each  bladder 
was  a  small  quantity  of  dried  peas,  or  little  pebbles  (as  I  was 
afterwards  informed).  With  these  bladders  they  now  and  then 
flapped  the  mouths  and  ears  of  those  who  stood  near  them,  of 
which  practice  I  could  not  then  conceive  the  meaning.  It  seems 
the  minds  of  these  people  are  so  taken  up  with  intense  specula- 
tions, that  they  neither  can  speak,  nor  attend  to  the  discourses 
of  others,  without  being  roused  by  some  external  taction  upon 
the  organs  of  speech  and  hearing;  for  which  reason  those  persons 
who  are  able  to  afford  it  always  keep  a  flapper  (the  original  is 
climenole]  in  their  family,  as  one  of  their  domestics,  nor  ever 
walk  abroad,  or  make  visits,  without  him.  And  the  business  of 
this  officer  is,  when  two,  three,  or  more  persons  are  in  company, 
gently  to  strike  with  his  bladder  the  mouth  of  him  who  is  to 
speak,  and  the  right  ear  of  him  or  them  to  whom  the  speaker 
addresses  himself.  This  flapper  is  likewise  employed  diligently 
to  attend  his  master  in  his  walks,  and,  upon  occasion,  to  give 
him  a  soft  flap  on  his  eyes,  because  he  is  always  so  wrapped  up 
in  cogitation  that  he  is  in  manifest  danger  of  falling  down  every 
precipice,  and  bouncing  his  head  against  every  post;  and  in 
the  streets,  of  jostling  others,  or  being  jostled  himself,  into  the 
kennel. 

It  was  necessary  to  give  the  reader  this  information,  without 
which  he  would  be  at  the  same  loss  with  me  to  understand  the 
proceedings  of  these  people,  as  they  conducted  me  up  the  stairs 
to  the  top  of  the  island,  and  from  thence  to  the  royal  palace. 
While  we  were  ascending,  they  forgot  several  times  what  they 
were  about,  and  left  me  to  myself,  till  their  memories  were  again 
roused  by  their  flappers;  for  they  appeared  altogether  unmoved 
by  the  sight  of  my  foreign  habit  and  countenance,  and  by  the 
shouts  of  the  vulgar,  whose  thoughts  and  minds  were  more  dis- 
engaged. 

At  last  we  entered  the  palace,  and  proceeded  into  the  cham- 
ber of  presence,  where  I  saw  the  king  seated  on  his  throne,  at- 
tended on  each  side  by  persons  of  prime  quality.  Before  the 
throne  was  a  large  table  filled  with  globes  and  spheres,  and 
mathematical  instruments  of  all  kinds.  His  Majesty  took  not 
the  least  notice  of  us,  although  our  entrance  was  not  without 


96  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

sufficient  noise,  by  the  concourse  of  all  persons  belonging  to  the 
court.  But  he  was  then  deep  in  a  problem,  and  we  attended 
at  least  an  hour  before  he  could  solve  it.  There  stood  by  him 
on  each  side  a  young  page,  with  flaps  in  their  hands,  and,  when 
they  saw  he  was  at  leisure,  one  of  them  gently  struck  his  mouth, 
and  the  other  his  right  ear ;  at  which  he  started  like  one  awaked 
on  the  sudden,  and  looking  towards  me,  and  the  company  I  was 
in,  recollected  the  occasion  of  our  coming,  whereof  he  had  been 
informed  before.  He  spoke  some  words,  whereupon  immedi- 
ately a  young  man  with  a  flap  came  up  to  my  side,  and  flapped 
me  gently  on  the  right  ear,  but  I  made  signs,  as  well  as  I  could, 
that  I  had  no  occasion  for  such  an  instrument;  which,  as  I  after- 
wards found,  gave  his  Majesty,  and  the  whole  court,  a  very 
mean  opinion  of  my  understanding.  The  king,  as  far  as  I  could 
conjecture,  asked  me  several  questions,  and  I  addressed  myself 
to  him  in  all  the  languages  I  had.  When  it  was  found  that  I 
could  neither  understand  nor  be  understood,  I  was  conducted, 
by  his  order,  to  an  apartment  in  his  palace  (this  prince  being 
distinguished,  above  all  his  predecessors,  for  his  hospitality  to 
strangers),  where  two  servants  were  appointed  to  attend  me. 
My  dinner  was  brought,  and  four  persons  of  quality,  whom  I 
remembered  to  have  seen  very  near  the  king's  person,  did  me 
the  honor  to  dine  with  me.  We  had  two  courses,  of  three  dishes 
each.  In  the  first  course  there  was  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  cut 
into  an  equilateral  triangle,  a  piece  of  beef  into  a  rhomboid,  and 
a  pudding  into  a  cycloid.  The  second  course  was  two  ducks, 
trussed  up  into  the  form  of  fiddles,  sausages  and  puddings  re- 
sembling flutes  and  hautboys,  and  a  breast  of  veal  in  the  shape 
of  a  harp.  The  servants  cut  our  bread  into  cones,  cylinders, 
parallelograms,  and  several  other  mathematical  figures. 

While  we  were  at  dinner,  I  made  bold  to  ask  the  names  of 
several  things  in  their  language,  and  those  noble  persons,  by  the 
assistance  of  their  flappers,  delighted  to  give  me  answers,  hop- 
ing to  raise  my  admiration  of  their  great  abilities,  if  I  could  be 
brought  to  converse  with  them.  I  was  soon  able  to  call  for 
bread  and  drink,  or  whatever  else  I  wanted. 

After  dinner  my  company  withdrew,  and  a  person  was  sent 
to  me,  by  the  king's  order,  attended  by  a  flapper.  He  brought 
with  him  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  three  or  four  books,  giving 
me  to  understand  by  signs  that  he  was  sent  to  teach  me  the 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  97 

language.  We  sat  together  four  hours,  in  which  time  I  wrote 
down  a  great  number  of  words  in  columns,  with  the  transla- 
tions over  against  them ;  I  likewise  made  a  shift  to  learn  several 
short  sentences.  For  my  tutor  would  order  one  of  my  servants 
to  fetch  something,  to  turn  about,  to  make  a  bow,  to  sit,  or  to 
stand,  or  walk,  and  the  like.  Then  I  took  down  the  sentence  in 
writing.  He  showed  me  also,  in  one  of  his  books,  the  figures  of 
the  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  Zodiac,  the  tropics,  and  polar  cir- 
cles, together  with  the  denominations  of  many  figures  of  planes 
and  solids.  He  gave  me  the  names  and  descriptions  of  all  the 
musical  instruments,  and  the  general  terms  of  art  in  playing 
on  each  of  them.  After  he  had  left  me,  I  placed  all  my  words, 
with  their  interpretations,  in  alphabetical  order.  And  thus,  in 
a  few  days,  by  the  help  of  a  very  faithful  memory,  I  got  some 
insight  into  their  language. 

The  word  which  I  interpret  the  flying  or  floating  island,  is, 
in  the  original,  lapuia,  whereof  I  could  never  learn  the  true  ety- 
mology. Lap,  in  the  old  obsolete  language,  signifieth  high,  and 
untuh,  a  governor,  from  which  they  say,  by  corruption,  was  de- 
rived laputa,  from  lapuntuh.  But  I  do  not  approve  of  this  deri- 
vation, which  seems  to  be  a  little  strained.  I  ventured  to  offer 
to  the  learned  among  them  a  conjecture  of  my  own,  that  laputa 
was  quasi  lap  outed  ;  lap  signifying  properly  the  dancing  of  the 
sun-beams  in  the  sea,  and  outed  a  wing;  which,  however,  I  shall 
not  obtrude,  but  submit  to  the  judicious  reader. 

Those  to  whom  the  king  had  entrusted  me,  observing  how  ill 
I  was  clad,  ordered  a  tailor  to  come  next  morning  and  take  my 
measure  for  a  suit  of  clothes.  This  operator  did  his  office  after 
a  different  manner  from  those  of  his  trade  in  Europe.  He  first 
took  my  altitude  by  a  quadrant,  and  then,  with  rule  and  com- 
passes, described  the  dimensions  and  outlines  of  my  whole  body, 
all  which  he  entered  upon  paper,  and  in  six  days  brought  my 
clothes  —  very  ill  made,  and  quite  out  of  shape,  by  happening 
to  mistake  a  figure  in  the  calculation.  But  my  comfort  was 
that  I  observed  such  accidents  very  frequent,  and  little  re- 
garded. 

During  my  confinement  for  want  of  clothes,  and  by  an  indis- 
position that  held  me  some  days  longer,  I  much  enlarged  my 
dictionary;  and,  when  I  went  next  to  court,  was  able  to  under- 
stand many  things  the  king  spoke,  and  to  return  him  some  kind 


98  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

of  answers.  His  Majesty  had  given  orders  that  the  islands 
should  move  north-east  and  by  east,  to  the  vertical  point  over 
Lagado,  the  metropolis  of  the  whole  kingdom  below  upon  the 
firm  earth.  It  was  about  ninety  leagues  distant,  and  our  voy- 
age lasted  four  days  and  a  half.  I  was  not  in  the  least  sensible 
of  the  progressive  motion  made  in  the  air  by  the  island.  On  the 
second  morning,  about  eleven  o'clock,  the  king  himself,  in  per- 
son, attended  by  his  nobility,  courtiers,  and  officers,  having  pre- 
pared all  their  musical  instruments,  played  on  them  for  three 
hours,  without  intermission,  so  that  I  was  quite  stunned  with 
the  noise;  neither  could  I  possibly  guess  the  meaning,  till  my 
tutor  informed  me.  He  said  that  the  people  of  their  island  had 
their  ears  adapted  to  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres,  which  al- 
ways played  at  certain  periods,  and  the  court  was  now  pre- 
pared to  bear  their  part,  in  whatever  instrument  they  most  ex- 
celled. 

In  our  journey  towards  Lagado,  the  capital  city,  his  Majesty 
ordered  that  the  island  should  stop  over  certain  towns  and  vil- 
lages, from  whence  he  might  receive  the  petitions  of  his  sub- 
jects. And,  to  this  purpose,  several  packthreads  were  let  down, 
with  small  weights  at  the  bottom.  On  these  packthreads  the 
people  strung  their  petitions,  which  mounted  up  directly,  like 
the  scraps  of  paper  fastened  by  schoolboys  at  the  end  of  the 
string  that  holds  their  kite.  Sometimes  we  received  wine  and 
victuals  from  below,  which  were  drawn  up  by  pulleys. 

The  knowledge  I  had  in  mathematics  gave  me  great  assist- 
ance in  acquiring  their  phraseology,  which  depended  much 
upon  that  science  and  music;  and  in  the  latter  I  was  not  un- 
skilled. Their  ideas  are  perpetually  conversant  in  lines  and 
figures.  If  they  would,  for  example,  praise  the  beauty  of  a  wo- 
man, or  any  other  animal,  they  describe  it  by  rhombs,  circles, 
parallelograms,  ellipses,  and  other  geometrical  terms;  or  by 
words  of  art  drawn  from  music,  needless  here  to  repeat.  I  ob- 
served, in  the  king's  kitchen,  all  sorts  of  mathematical  and 
musical  instruments,  after  the  figures  of  which  they  cut  up  the 
joints  that  were  served  to  his  Majesty's  table. 

Their  houses  are  very  ill  built,  the  walls  bevel,  without  one 
right  angle  in  any  apartment;  and  this  defect  ariseth  from  the 
contempt  they  bear  to  practical  geometry,  which  they  despise 
as  vulgar  and  mechanic,  those  instructions  they  give  being  too 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  99 

refined  for  the  intellectuals  of  their  workmen,  which  occasions 
perpetual  mistakes.  And  although  they  are  dexterous  enough 
upon  a  piece  of  paper  in  the  management  of  the  rule,  the  pencil, 
and  the  divider,  yet,  in  the  common  actions  and  behavior  of 
life,  I  have  not  seen  a  more  clumsy,  awkward,  and  unhandy 
people,  nor  so  slow  and  perplexed  in  their  conceptions  upon  all 
other  subjects,  except  those  of  mathematics  and  music.  They 
are  very  bad  reasoners,  and  vehemently  given  to  opposition, 
unless  when  they  happen  to  be  of  the  right  opinion,  which  is 
seldom  their  case.  Imagination,  fancy,  and  invention  they  are 
wholly  strangers  to,  nor  have  any  words  in  their  language  by 
which  those  ideas  can  be  expressed ;  the  whole  compass  of  their 
thoughts  and  mind  being  shut  up  within  the  two  forementioned 
sciences. 

Most  of  them,  and  especially  those  who  deal  in  the  astrono- 
mical part,  have  great  faith  in  judicial  astrology,  although  they 
are  ashamed  to  own  it  publicly.  But  what  I  chiefly  admired, 
and  thought  altogether  unaccountable,  was  the  strong  disposi- 
tion I  observed  in  them  towards  news  and  politics,  perpetually 
inquiring  into  public  affairs,  giving  their  judgments  in  matters 
of  state,  and  passionately  disputing  every  inch  of  a  party  opin- 
ion. I  have,  indeed,  observed  the  same  disposition  among  most 
of  the  mathematicians  I  have  known  in  Europe,  although  I 
could  never  discover  the  least  analogy  between  the  two  sciences; 
unless  those  people  suppose  that,  because  the  smallest  circle 
hath  as  many  degrees  as  the  largest,  therefore  the  regulation 
and  management  of  the  world  require  no  more  abilities  than 
the  handling  and  turning  of  a  globe.  But  I  rather  take  this 
quality  to  spring  from  a  very  common  infirmity  of  human  na- 
ture, inclining  us  to  be  more  curious  and  conceited  in  matters 
where  we  have  least  concern,  and  for  which  we  are  least  adapted 
either  by  study  or  nature. 

These  people  are  under  continual  disquietudes,  never  enjoy- 
ing a  minute's  piece  of  mind;  and  their  disturbances  proceed 
from  causes  which  very  little  affect  the  rest  of  mortals.  Their 
apprehensions  arise  from  several  changes  they  dread  in  the  ce- 
lestial bodies.  For  instance,  that  the  earth,  by  the  continual 
approaches  of  the  sun  towards  it,  must  in  course  of  time  be  ab- 
sorbed, or  swallowed  up.  That  the  face  of  the  sun  will  by  de- 
grees be  encrusted  with  its  own  effluvia,  and  give  no  more  light 


ico  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

to  the  world.  That  the  earth  very  narrowly  escaped  a  brush 
from  the  tail  of  the  last  comet,  which  would  have  infallibly  re- 
duced it  to  ashes ;  and  that  the  next,  which  they  have  calculated 
for  one-and-thirty  years  hence,  will  probably  destroy  us.  For  if 
in  its  perihelion  it  should  approach  within  a  certain  degree  of 
the  sun  (as  by  their  calculations  they  have  reason  to  dread),  it 
will  conceive  a  degree  of  heat  ten  thousand  tunes  more  intense 
than  that  of  red-hot  glowing  iron,  and,  in  its  absence  frorn  the 
sun,  carry  a  blazing  tail  ten  hundred  thousand  and  fourteen 
miles  long;  through  which  if  the  earth  should  pass,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  one  hundred  thousand  miles  from  the  nucleus  or  main 
body  of  the  comet,  it  must  in  its  passage  be  set  on  fire,  and  re- 
duced to  ashes.  That  the  sun,  daily  spending  its  rays  without 
any  nutriment  to  supply  them,  will  at  last  be  wholly  consumed 
and  annihilated;  which  must  be  attended  with  the  destruction 
of  this  earth,  and  of  all  the  planets  that  receive  their  light  from 
it. 

They  are  so  perpetually  alarmed  with  the  apprehensions  of 
these  and  the  like  impending  dangers,  that  they  can  neither 
sleep  quietly  in  their  beds,  nor  have  any  relish  for  the  common 
pleasures  or  amusements  of  life.  When  they  meet  an  acquaint- 
ance in  the  morning,  the  first  question  is  about  the  sun's  health, 
—  how  he  looked  at  his  setting  and  rising,  and  what  hopes  they 
have  to  avoid  the  stroke  of  the  approaching  comet.  This  con- 
versation they  are  apt  to  run  into  with  the  same  temper  that 
boys  discover  in  delighting  to  hear  terrible  stories  of  spirits  and 
hobgoblins,  which  they  greedily  listen  to,  and  dare  not  go  to 
bed  for  fear.  .  .  . 

[BALNIBARBI] 

This  academy  is  not  an  entire  single  building,  but  a  continu- 
ation of  several  houses  on  both  sides  of  a  street,  which,  growing 
waste,  was  purchased,  and  applied  to  that  use.  I  was  received 
very  kindly  by  the  warden,  and  went  for  many  days  to  the 
academy.  Every  room  hath  in  it  one  or  more  projectors,  —  and 
I  believe  I  could  not  be  in  fewer  than  five  hundred  rooms. 

The  first  man  I  saw  was  of  a  meagre  aspect,  with  sooty  hands 
and  face,  his  hair  and  beard  long,  ragged,  and  singed  in  several 
places.  His  clothes,  shirt,  and  skin  were  all  of  the  same  color. 
He  had  been  eight  years  upon  a  project  for  extracting  sun- 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  101 

beams  out  of  cucumbers,  which  were  to  be  put  into  vials  her- 
metically sealed,  and  let  out  to  warm  the  air  in  raw  inclement 
summers.  He  told  me  he  did  not  doubt,  in  eight  years  more,  he 
should  be  able  to  supply  the  governor's  gardens  with  sunshine 
at  a  reasonable  rate;  but  he  complained  that  his  stock  was  low, 
and  entreated  me  to  give  him  something  as  an  encouragement 
to  ingenuity,  especially  since  this  had  been  a  very  dear  season 
for  cucumbers.  I  made  him  a  small  present,  for  my  lord  had 
furnished  me  with  money  on  purpose,  because  he  knew  their 
practice  of  begging  from  ah1  who  go  to  see  them.  .  .  . 

I  saw  another  at  work  to  calcine  ice  into  gunpowder,  who  like- 
wise showed  me  a  treatise  he  had  written  concerning  the  mal- 
leability of  fire,  which  he  intended  to  publish. 

There  was  a  most  ingenious  architect,  who  had  contrived  a 
new  method  for  building  houses,  by  beginning  at  the  roof  and 
working  downwards  to  the  foundation,  which  he  justified  to  me 
by  the  like  practice  of  those  two  prudent  insects,  the  bee  and 
the  spider. 

There  was  a  man  born  blind,  who  had  several  apprentices  in 
his  own  condition ;  their  employment  was  to  mix  colors  for  paint- 
ers, which  their  master  taught  them  to  distinguish  by  feeling 
and  smelling.  It  was,  indeed,  my  misfortune  to  find  them,  at 
that  time,  not  very  perfect  in  their  lessons,  and  the  professor 
himself  happened  to  be  generally  mistaken.  This  artist  is  much 
encouraged  and  esteemed  by  the  whole  fraternity. 

In  another  apartment  I  was  highly  pleased  with  a  projector 
who  had  found  a  device  of  plowing  the  ground  with  hogs,  to 
save  the  charges  of  ploughs,  cattle,  and  labor.  The  method  is 
this:  in  an  acre  of  ground,  you  bury,  at  six  inches  distance,  and 
eight  deep,  a  quantity  of  acorns,  dates,  chestnuts,  and  other 
mast,  or  vegetables,  whereof  these  animals  are  fondest;  then 
you  drive  six  hundred  or  more  of  them  into  the  field,  where,  in 
few  days,  they  will  root  up  the  whole  ground  in  search  of  their 
food,  and  make  it  fit  for  sowing,  at  the  same  time  manuring  it 
with  their  dung.  It  is  true,  upon  experiment,  they  found  the 
charge  and  trouble  very  great,  and  they  had  little  or  no  crop. 
However,  it  is  not  doubted  that  this  invention  may  be  capable 
of  great  improvement. 

I  went  into  another  room,  where  the  walls  and  ceiling  were 
all  hung  round  with  cobwebs,  except  a  narrow  passage  for  the 


102  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

artist  to  go  in  and  out.  At  my  entrance,  he  called  aloud  to  me 
not  to  disturb  his  webs.  He  lamented  the  fatal  mistake  the 
world  had  been  so  long  in  of  using  silk-worms,  while  we  had 
such  plenty  of  domestic  insects  who  infinitely  excelled  the  for- 
mer, because  they  understood  how  to  weave  as  well  as  spin.  And 
he  proposed  farther,  that,  by  employing  spiders,  the  charge  of 
dyeing  silks  would  be  wholly  saved;  whereof  I  was  fully  con- 
vinced, when  he  showed  me  a  vast  number  of  flies  most  beauti- 
fully colored,  wherewith  he  fed  his  spiders,  assuring  us  that  the 
webs  would  take  a  tincture  from  them;  and  as  he  had  them  of 
all  hues,  he  hoped  to  fit  everybody's  fancy,  as  soon  as  he  could 
find  proper  food  for  the  flies,  of  certain  gums,  oils,  and  other 
glutinous  matter,  to  give  a  strength  and  consistence  to  the 
threads. 

There  was  an  astronomer,  who  had  undertaken  to  place  a 
sun-dial  upon  the  great  weather-cock  on  the  town  house,  by  ad- 
justing the  annual  and  diurnal  motions  of  the  earth  and  sun,  so 
as  to  answer  and  coincide  with  all  accidental  turnings  of  the 
wind.  .  .  . 

I  visited  many  other  apartments,  but  shall  not  trouble  my 
reader  with  all  the  curiosities  I  observed,  being  studious  of 
brevity. 

I  had  hitherto  seen  only  one  side  of  the  academy,  the  other 
being  appropriated  to  the  advancers  of  speculative  learning,  of 
whom  I  shall  say  something,  when  I  have  mentioned  one  illus- 
trious person  more,  who  is  called  among  them  "the  universal 
artist."  He  told  us  he  had  been  thirty  years  employing  his 
thoughts  for  the  improvement  of  human  life.  He  had  two 
large  rooms  full  of  wonderful  curiosities,  and  fifty  men  at  work. 
Some  were  condensing  air  into  a  dry  tangible  substance,  by  ex- 
tracting the  nitre,  and  letting  the  aqueous  or  fluid  particles  per- 
colate; others  softening  marble  for  pillows  and  pin-cushions; 
others  petrifying  the  hoofs  of  a  living  horse,  to  preserve  them 
from  foundering.  The  artist  himself  was  at  that  time  busy 
upon  two  great  designs;  the  first,  to  sow  land  with  chaff,  wherein 
he  affirmed  the  true  seminal  virtue  to  be  contained,  as  he  de- 
monstrated by  several  experiments  which  I  was  not  skillful 
enough  to  comprehend.  The  other  was,  by  a  certain  composi- 
tion of  gums,  minerals,  and  vegetables,  outwardly  applied,  to 
prevent  the  growth  of  wool  upon  two  young  lambs;  and  he 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  103 

hoped,  in  a  reasonable  time,  to  propagate  the  breed  of  naked 
sheep  all  over  the  kingdom. 

We  crossed  a  walk  to  the  other  part  of  the  academy,  where, 
as  I  have  already  said,  the  projectors  in  speculative  learning 
resided. 

The  first  professor  I  saw  was  in  a  very  large  room,  with  forty 
pupils  about  him.  After  salutation,  observing  me  to  look 
earnestly  upon  a  frame  which  took  up  the  greatest  part  of  both 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  room,  he  said  perhaps  I  might 
wonder  to  see  him  employed  in  a  project  for  improving  specula- 
tive knowledge  by  practical  and  mechanical  operations;  but  the 
world  would  soon  be  sensible  of  its  usefulness,  and  he  flattered 
himself  that  a  more  noble,  exalted  thought  never  sprang  in  any 
other  man's  head.  Every  one  knew  how  laborious  the  usual 
method  is  of  attaining  to  arts  and  sciences ;  whereas,  by  his  con- 
trivance, the  most  ignorant  person,  at  a  reasonable  charge,  and 
with  a  little  bodily  labor,  may  write  books  in  philosophy, 
po'etry,  politics,  law,  mathematics,  and  theology,  without  the 
least  assistance  from  genius  or  study.  He  then  led  me  to  the 
frame,  about  the  sides  whereof  all  his  pupils  stood  in  ranks.  It 
was  twenty  feet  square,  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The 
superficies  was  composed  of  several  bits  of  wood,  about  the  big- 
ness of  a  die,  but  some  larger  than  others.  They  were  all  linked 
together  by  slender  wires.  These  bits  of  wood  were  covered  on 
every  square  with  paper  pasted  on  them ;  and  on  these  papers 
were  written  all  the  words  of  their  language,  in  their  several 
moods,  tenses,  and  declensions,  but  without  any  order.  The 
professor  then  desired  me  to  observe,  for  he  was  going  to  set  his 
engine  at  work.  The  pupils,  at  his  command,  took  each  of  them 
hold  of  an  iron  handle,  whereof  there  were  forty  fixed  round  the 
edges  of  the  frame;  and,  giving  them  a  sudden  turn,  the  whole 
disposition  of  the  words  was  entirely  changed.  He  then  com- 
manded six-and- thirty  of  the  lads  to  read  the  several  lines  softly, 
as  they  appeared  upon  the  frame;  and,  where  they  found  three 
or  four  words  together  that  might  make  part  of  a  sentence,  they 
dictated  to  the  four  remaining  boys,  who  were  scribes.  This 
work  was  repeated  three  or  four  times,  and  at  every  turn  the 
engine  was  so  contrived  that  the  words  shifted  into  new  places, 
as  the  square  bits  of  wood  moved  upside  down. 

Six  hours  a  day  the  young  students  were  employed  in  this 


104  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

labor,  and  the  professor  showed  me  several  volumes  in  large 
folio,  already  collected,  of  broken  sentences  which  he  intended 
to  piece  together,  and,  out  of  those  rich  materials,  to  give  the 
world  a  complete  body  of  all  arts  and  sciences;  which,  however, 
might  be  still  improved,  and  much  expedited,  if  the  public 
would  raise  a  fund  for  making  and  employing  five  hundred  such 
frames  in  Lagado,  and  oblige  the  managers  to  contribute  in 
common  their  several  collections. 

He  assured  me  that  this  invention  had  employed  all  his 
thoughts  from  his  youth;  that  he  had  emptied  the  whole  vocab- 
ulary into  his  frame,  and  made  the  strictest  computation  of  the 
general  proportion  there  is  in  books  between  the  numbers  of 
particles,  nouns,  and  verbs,  and  other  parts  of  speech. 

I  made  my  humblest  acknowledgment  to  this  illustrious  per- 
son for  his  great  communicativeness;  and  promised,  if  ever  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  return  to  my  native  country,  that  I 
would  do  him  justice,  as  the  sole  inventor  of  this  wonderful  ma- 
chine; the  form  and  contrivance  of  which  I  desired  leave  to  de- 
lineate upon  paper,  as  in  the  figure  here  annexed.  I  told  him, 
although  it  were  the  custom  of  our  learned  in  Europe  to  steal 
inventions  from  each  other,  —  who  had  thereby  at  least  this 
advantage,  that  it  became  a  controversy  which  was  the  right 
owner,  —  yet  I  would  take  such  caution,  that  he  should  have 
the  honor  entire,  without  a  rival. 

We  next  went  to  the  school  of  languages,  where  three  pro- 
fessors sat  in  consultation  upon  improving  that  of  their  own 
country. 

The  first  project  was  to  shorten  discourse  by  cutting  poly- 
syllables into  one,  and  leaving  out  verbs  and  participles;  be- 
cause, in  reality,  all  things  imaginable  are  but  nouns. 

The  other  project  was  a  scheme  for  entirely  abolishing  all 
words  whatsoever;  and  this  was  urged  as  a  great  advantage  in 
point  of  health,  as  well  as  brevity.  For  it  is  plain  that  every 
word  we  speak  is,  in  some  degree,  a  diminution  of  our  lungs  by 
corrosion,  and  consequently  contributes  to  the  shortening  of 
our  lives.  An  expedient  was  therefore  offered,  that,  since  words 
are  only  names  for  things,  it  would  be  more  convenient  for  all 
men  to  carry  about  them  such  things  as  were  necessary  to  ex- 
press the  particular  business  they  are  to  discourse  on.  And  this 
invention  would  certainly  have  taken  place,  to  the  great  ease  as 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  105 

well  as  health  of  the  subject,  if  the  women,  in  conjunction  with 
the  vulgar  and  illiterate,  had  not  threatened  to  raise  a  rebellion, 
unless  they  might  be  allowed  the  liberty  to  speak  with  their 
tongues  after  the  manner  of  their  forefathers;  such  constant 
irreconcilable  enemies  to  science  are  the  common  people.  How- 
ever, many  of  the  most  learned  and  wise  adhere  to  the  new 
scheme  of  expressing  themselves  by  things;  which  hath  only 
this  inconvenience  attending  it,  that,  if  a  man's  business  be  very 
great,  and  of  various  kinds,  he  must  be  obliged,  in  proportion,  to 
carry  a  greater  bundle  of  things  upon  his  back,  unless  he  can  af- 
ford one  or  two  strong  servants  to  attend  him.  I  have  often  be- 
held two  of  those  sages  almost  sinking  under  the  weight  of  their 
packs,  like  peddlers  among  us,  who,  when  they  met  in  the 
streets,  would  lay  down  their  loads,  open  their  sacks,  and  hold 
conversation  for  an  hour  together,  —  then  put  up  their  imple- 
ments, help  each  other  resume  their  burdens,  and  take  their 
leave. 

But  for  short  conversations  a  man  may  carry  implements  in 
his  pockets,  and  under  his  arms,  enough  to  supply  him;  and  in 
his  house  he  cannot  be  at  a  loss.  Therefore  the  room  where  com- 
pany meet,  who  practice  this  art,  is  full  of  all  things  ready  at 
hand,  requisite  to  furnish  matter  for  this  kind  of  artificial  con- 
verse. 

Another  great  advantage  proposed  by  this  invention  was, 
that  it  would  serve  as  an  universal  language,  to  be  understood 
in  all  civilized  nations,  whose  goods  and  utensils  are  generally 
of  the  same  kind,  or  nearly  resembling,  so  that  their  uses  might 
easily  be  comprehended.  And  thus  ambassadors  would  be 
qualified  to  treat  with  foreign  princes,  or  ministers  of  state,  to 
whose  tongues  they  were  utter  strangers. 

I  was  at  the  mathematical  school,  where  the  master  taught 
his  pupils  after  a  method  scarce  imaginable  to  us  in  Europe. 
The  proposition  and  demonstration  were  fairly  written  on  a 
thin  wafer,  with  ink  composed  of  a  cephalic  tincture.  This  the 
student  was  to  swallow  upon  a  fasting  stomach,  and  for  three 
days  following  eat  nothing  but  bread  and  water.  As  the  wafer 
digested,  the  tincture  mounted  to  his  brain,  bearing  the  proposi- 
tion along  with  it.  But  the  success  had  not  hitherto  been  an- 
swerable, partly  by  some  error  in  the  quantum  or  composition, 
and  partly  by  the  perverseness  of  lads,  to  whom  this  bolus  is 


io6  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

so  nauseous,  that  they  generally  steal  aside,  and  discharge  it 
upwards,  before  it  can  operate;  neither  have  they  been  yet 
persuaded  to  use  so  long  an  abstinence  as  the  prescription  re- 
quires. .  .  . 

[THE  HOUYHNHNMS] 

The  reader  may  please  to  observe  that  the  following  extract 
of  many  conversations  I  had  with  my  master,  contains  a  sum- 
mary of  the  most  material  points  which  were  discoursed  at  sev- 
eral times,  for  above  two  years,  his  Honor  often  desiring  fuller 
satisfaction,  as  I  farther  improved  in  the  Houyhnhnm  tongue. 
I  laid  before  him,  as  well  as  I  could,  the  whole  state  of  Europe; 
I  discoursed  of  trade  and  manufactures,  of  arts  and  sciences; 
and  the  answers  I  gave  to  all  the  questions  he  made,  as  they 
arose  upon  several  subjects,  were  a  fund  of  conversation  not  to 
be  exhausted.  But  I  shall  here  only  set  down  the  substance  of 
what  passed  between  us  concerning  my  own  country,  reducing 
it  into  order  as  well  as  I  can,  without  any  regard  to  time,  or 
other  circumstances,  while  I  strictly  adhere  to  truth.  My  only 
concern  is,  that  I  shall  hardly  be  able  to  do  justice  to  my  mas- 
ter's arguments  and  expressions,  which  must  needs  suffer  by 
my  want  of  capacity,  as  well  as  by  a  translation  into  our  bar- 
barous English. 

In  obedience,  therefore,  to  his  Honor's  commands,  I  related 
to  him  the  revolution  under  the  Prince  of  Orange ;  the  long  war 
with  France  entered  into  by  the  said  Prince,  and  renewed  by 
his  successor  the  present  Queen,  wherein  the  greatest  powers 
of  Christendom  were  engaged,  and  which  still  continued;  I  com- 
puted, at  his  request,  that  about  a  million  of  Yahoos  might  have 
been  killed  in  the  whole  progress  of  it,  and  perhaps  a  hundred 
or  more  cities  taken,  and  five  times  as  many  ships  burnt  or  sunk. 

He  asked  me  what  were  the  usual  causes  or  motives  that 
made  one  country  go  to  war  with  another.  I  answered  they 
were  innumerable ;  but  I  should  only  mention  a  few  of  the  chief. 
Sometimes  the  ambition  of  princes,  who  never  think  they  have 
land  or  people  enough  to  govern;  sometimes  the  corruption  of 
ministers,  who  engage  their  master  in  a  war  in  order  to  stifle  or 
divert  the  clamor  of  the  subjects  against  their  evil  administra- 
tion. Difference  in  opinion  hath  cost  many  millions  of  lives: 
for  instance,  whether  flesh  be  bread,  or  bread  be  flesh;  whether 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  107 

the  juice  of  a  certain  berry  be  blood  or  wine;  whether  whistling 
be  a  vice  or  virtue;  whether  it  be  better  to  kiss  a  post,  or  throw 
it  into  the  fire;  what  is  the  best  color  for  a  coat,  —  whether 
black,  white,  red,  or  gray ;  and  whether  it  should  be  long  or  short, 
narrow  or  wide,  dirty  or  clean;  with  many  more.  Neither  are 
any  wars  so  furious  and  bloody,  or  of  so  long  continuance,  as 
those  occasioned  by  difference  in  opinion,  especially  if  it  be  in 
things  indifferent. 

Sometimes  the  quarrel  between  two  princes  is  to  decide  which 
of  them  shall  dispossess  a  third  of  his  dominions,  where  neither 
of  them  pretend  to  any  right.  Sometimes  one  prince  quarrel- 
eth  with  another,  for  fear  the  other  should  quarrel  with  him. 
Sometimes  a  war  is  entered  upon,  because  the  enemy  is  too 
strong;  and  sometimes  because  he  is  too  weak.  Sometimes  our 
neighbors  want  the  things  which  we  have,  or  have  the  things 
which  we  want;  and  we  both  fight,  till  they  take  ours,  or  give  us 
theirs.  It  is  a  very  justifiable  cause  of  a  war,  to  invade  a  country, 
after  the  people  have  been  wasted  by  famine,  destroyed  by  pes- 
tilence, or  embroiled  by  factions  among  themselves.  It  is  justi- 
fiable to  enter  into  war  against  our  nearest  ally,  when  one  of 
his  towns  lies  convenient  for  us,  or  a  territory  of  land,  that 
would  render  our  dominions  round  and  complete.  If  a  prince 
sends  forces  into  a  nation  where  the  people  are  poor  and  ignor- 
ant, he  may  lawfully  put  half  of  them  to  death,  and  make  slaves 
of  the  rest,  in  order  to  civilize  and  reduce  them  from  their  bar- 
barous way  of  living.  It  is  a  very  kingly,  honorable,  and  fre- 
quent practice,  when  one  prince  desires  the  assistance  of  another 
to  secure  him  against  an  invasion,  that  the  assistant,  when  he 
hath  driven  out  the  invader,  should  seize  on  the  dominions  him- 
self, and  kill,  imprison,  or  banish  the  prince  he  came  to  relieve. 
Alliance  by  blood  or  marriage  is  a  frequent  cause  of  war  between 
princes;  and  the  nearer  the  kindred  is,  the  greater  is  their  dis- 
position to  quarrel.  Poor  nations  are  hungry,  and  rich  nations 
are  proud;  and  pride  and  hunger  will  ever  be  at  variance.  For 
these  reasons,  the  trade  of  a  soldier  is  held  the  most  honorable 
of  all  others ;  because  a  soldier  is  a  Yahoo  hired  to  kill  in  cold 
blood  as  many  of  his  own  species,  who  had  never  offended  him, 
as  possibly  he  can. 

There  is  likewise  a  kind  of  beggarly  princes  in  Europe,  not 
able  to  make  war  by  themselves,  who  hire  out  their  troops  to 


io8  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

richer  nations,  for  so  much  a  day  to  each  man;  of  which  they 
keep  three-fourths  to  themselves,  and  it  is  the  best  part  of  their 
maintenance;  such  are  those  hi  Germany  and  other  northern 
parts  of  Europe. 

"  What  you  have  told  me,"  said  my  master,  "upon  the  sub- 
ject of  war,  does,  indeed,  discover  most  admirably  the  effects 
of  that  reason  you  pretend  to;  however,  it  is  happy  that  the 
shame  is  greater  than  the  danger,  and  that  Nature  hath  left 
you  utterly  incapable  of  doing  much  mischief.  For,  your 
mouths  lying  flat  with  your  faces,  you  can  hardly  bite  each 
other  to  any  purpose,  unless  by  consent.  Then,  as  to  the  claws 
upon  your  feet  before  and  behind,  they  are  so  short  and  tender, 
that  one  of  our  Yahoos  would  drive  a  dozen  of  yours  before 
him.  And  therefore,  in  recounting  the  numbers  of  those  who 
have  been  killed  in  battle,  I  cannot  but  think  that  you  have 
said  the  thing  which  is  not." 

I  could  not  forbear  shaking  my  head,  and  smiling  a  little  at 
his  ignorance.  And,  being  no  stranger  to  the  art  of  war,  I  gave 
him  a  description  of  cannons,  culverins,  muskets,  carbines,  pis- 
tols, bullets,  powder,  swords,  bayonets,  battles,  sieges,  retreats, 
attacks,  undermines,  countermines,  bombardments,  sea-fights; 
ships  sunk  with  a  thousand  men;  twenty  thousand  killed  on 
each  side;  dying  groans,  limbs  flying  in  the  air;  smoke,  noise, 
confusion,  trampling  to  death  under  horses'  feet;  flight,  pursuit, 
victory;  fields  strewed  with  carcases,  left  for  food  to  dogs  and 
wolves  and  birds  of  prey;  plundering,  stripping,  ravishing, 
burning,  and  destroying.  And,  to  set  forth  the  valor  of  my 
own  dear  countrymen,  I  assured  him  that  I  had  seen  them 
blow  up  a  hundred  enemies  at  once  in  a  siege,  and  as  many  in 
a  ship;  and  beheld  the  dead  bodies  come  down  in  pieces  from 
the  clouds,  to  the  great  diversion  of  the  spectators. 

I  was  going  on  to  more  particulars  when  my  master  com- 
manded me  silence.  He  said,  whoever  understood  the  nature  of 
Yahoos  might  easily  believe  it  possible  for  so  vile  an  animal  to 
be  capable  of  every  action  I  had  named,  if  their  strength  and 
cunning  equaled  their  malice.  But  as  my  discourse  had  in- 
creased his  abhorrence  of  the  whole  species,  so  he  found  it  gave 
him  a  disturbance  in  his  mind,  to  which  he  was  wholly  a  stran- 
ger before.  He  thought  his  ears,  being  used  to  such  abominable 
words,  might,  by  degrees,  admit  them  with  less  detestation. 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  109 

That,  although  he  hated  the  Yahoos  of  this  country,  yet  he  no 
more  blamed  them  for  their  odious  qualities  than  he  did  a 
gnnayh  (a  bird  of  prey)  for  its  cruelty,  or  a  sharp  stone  for  cut- 
ting his  hoof.  But  when  a  creature  pretending  to  reason  could 
be  capable  of  such  enormities,  he  dreaded  lest  the  corruption  of 
that  faculty  might  be  worse  than  brutality  itself.  He  seemed 
therefore  confident  that,  instead  of  reason,  we  were  only  pos- 
sessed of  some  quality  fitted  to  increase  our  natural  vices,  as 
the  reflection  from  a  troubled  stream  returns  the  image  of  anill- 
shapen  body,  not  only  larger,  but  more  distorted. 

He  added  that  he  had  heard  too  much  upon  the  subject  of  war, 
both  in  this  and  some  former  discourses.  There  was  another 
point  which  a  little  perplexed  him  at  present.  I  had  informed 
him  that  some  of  our  crew  left  their  country  on  account  of  be- 
ing ruined  by  law;  that  I  had  already  explained  the  meaning  of 
the  word,  but  he  was  at  a  loss  how  it  should  come  to  pass  that 
the  law,  which  was  intended  for  every  man's  preservation, 
should  be  any  man's  ruin.  Therefore  he  desired  to  be  further 
satisfied  what  I  meant  by  law,  and  the  dispensers  thereof,  ac- 
cording to  the  present  practice  in  my  own  country;  because  he 
thought  Nature  and  reason  were  sufficient  guides  for  a  reason- 
able animal,  as  we  pretended  to  be,  in  showing  us  what  we 
ought  to  do  and  what  to  avoid. 

I  assured  his  Honor  that  law  was  a  science  in  which  I  had  not 
much  conversed,  further  than  by  employing  advocates  in  vain, 
upon  some  injustices  that  had  been  done  me;  however,  I  would 
give  him  all  the  satisfaction  I  was  able. 

I  said,  there  was  a  society  of  men  among  us,  bred  up  from 
their  youth  in  the  art  of  proving,  by  words  multiplied  for  the 
purpose,  that  white  is  black,  and  black  is  white,  according  as 
they  are  paid.  To  this  society  all  the  rest  of  the  people  are 
slaves.  For  example,  if  my  neighbor  hath  a  mind  to  my  cow,  he 
hires  a  lawyer  to  prove  that  he  ought  to  have  my  cow  from  me. 
I  must  then  hire  another  to  defend  my  right,  it  being  against 
all  rules  of  law  that  any  man  should  be  allowed  to  speak  for 
himself.  Now  in  this  case  I,  who  am  the  right  owner,  lie  under 
two  disadvantages;  first,  my  lawyer,  being  practiced  almost 
from  his  cradle  in  defending  falsehood,  is  quite  out  of  his  ele- 
ment when  he  would  be  an  advocate  for  justice,  —  which,  as  an 
office  unnatural,  he  always  attempts  with  great  awkwardness, 


no  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

if  not  with  ill-will.  The  second  disadvantage  is,  that  my  lawyer 
must  proceed  with  great  caution,  or  else  he  will  be  reprimanded 
by  the  judges,  and  abhorred  by  his  brethren,  as  one  that  would 
lessen  the  practice  of  the  law.  And  therefore  I  have  but  two 
methods  to  preserve  my  cow.  The  first  is,  to  gain  over  my  ad- 
versary's lawyer  with  a  double  fee;  who  will  then  betray  his 
client,  by  insinuating  that  he  hath  justice  on  his  side.  The 
second  way  is  for  my  lawyer  to  make  my  cause  appear  as  un- 
just as  he  can,  by  allowing  the  cow  to  belong  to  my  adversary; 
and  this,  if  it  be  skillfully  done,  will  certainly  bespeak  the  favor 
of  the  bench.  Now,  your  Honor  is  to  know  that  these  judges 
are  persons  appointed  to  decide  all  controversies  of  property, 
as  well  as  for  the  trial  of  criminals,  and  picked  out  from  the 
most  dexterous  lawyers,  who  are  grown  old  or  lazy,  and,  hav- 
ing been  biased  all  their  lives  against  truth  and  equity,  are 
under  such  a  fatal  necessity  of  favoring  fraud,  perjury,  and 
oppression,  that  I  have  known  several  of  them  refuse  a  large 
bribe  from  the  side  where  justice  lay,  rather  than  injure  the 
faculty  by  doing  anything  unbecoming  their  nature  or  their 
office. 

It  is  a  maxim  among  these  lawyers  that  whatever  hath 
been  done  before  may  legally  be  done  again ;  and  therefore  they 
take  special  care  to  record  all  the  decisions  formerly  made 
against  common  justice  and  the  general  reason  of  mankind. 
These,  under  the  name  of  precedents,  they  produce  as  authori- 
ties, to  justify  the  most  iniquitous  opinions,  and  the  judges 
never  fail  of  directing  accordingly. 

In  pleading,  they  studiously  avoid  entering  into  the  merits 
of  the  cause,  but  are  loud,  violent,  and  tedious,  in  dwelling  upon 
all  circumstances  which  are  not  to  the  purpose.  For  instance, 
in  the  case  already  mentioned,  they  never  desire  to  know  what 
claim  or  title  my  adversary  hath  to  my  cow,  but  whether  the 
said  cow  were  red  or  black,  her  horns  long  or  short,  —  whether 
the  field  I  graze  her  in  be  round  or  square,  —  whether  she  was 
milked  at  home  or  abroad,  — what  diseases  she  is  subject  to,  and 
the  like;  after  which  they  consult  precedents,  adjourn  the  cause 
from  time  to  time,  and  in  ten,  twenty,  or  thirty  years,  come 
to  an  issue. 

It  is  Kkewise  to  be  observed  that  this  society  hath  a  pecu- 
liar cant  and  jargon  of  their  own,  that  no  other  mortal  can  un- 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  in 

derstand,  and  wherein  all  their  laws  are  written,  which  they 
take  special  care  to  multiply;  whereby  they  have  wholly  con- 
founded the  very  essence  of  truth  and  falsehood,  of  right  and 
wrong;  so  that  it  will  take  thirty  years  to  decide  whether  the 
field  left  me  by  my  ancestors  for  six  generations,  belongs  to  me, 
or  to  a  stranger  three  hundred  miles  off.  .  .  . 

My  master  was  yet  wholly  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  mo- 
tives could  incite  this  race  of  lawyers  to  perplex,  disquiet,  and 
weary  themselves,  and  engage  in  a  confederacy  of  injustice, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  injuring  their  fellow-animals;  neither 
could  he  comprehend  what  I  meant  in  saying  they  did  it  for 
hire.  Whereupon  I  was  at  much  pains  to  describe  to  him  the 
use  of  money,  the  materials  it  was  made  of,  and  the  value  of 
the  metals;  that,  when  a  Yahoo  had  got  a  great  store  of  this  pre- 
cious substance,  he  was  able  to  purchase  whatever  he  had  a 
mind  to,  —  the  finest  clothing,  the  noblest  houses,  great  tracts 
of  land,  the  most  costly  meats  and  drinks,  and  have  his  choice 
of  the  most  beautiful  females.  Therefore,  since  money  alone 
was  able  to  perform  all  these  feats,  our  Yahoos  thought  they 
could  never  have  enough  of  it  to  spend,  or  to  save,  as  they 
found  themselves  inclined,  from  their  natural  bent,  either  to 
profusion  or  avarice.  That  the  rich  man  enjoyed  the  fruit  of 
the  poor  man's  labor,  and  the  latter  were  a  thousand  to  one  in 
proportion  to  the  former.  That  the  bulk  of  our  people  were 
forced  to  live  miserably,  by  laboring  every  day  for  small  wages, 
to  make  a  few  live  plentifully.  I  enlarged  myself  much  on 
these  and  many  other  particulars,  to  the  same  purpose,  but  his 
Honor  was  still  to  seek;  for  he  went  upon  a  supposition  that  all 
animals  had  a  title  to  their  share  in  the  productions  of  the  earth, 
and  especially  those  who  presided  over  the  rest.  Therefore  he 
desired  I  would  let  him  know  what  these  costly  meats  were, 
and  how  any  of  us  happened  to  want  them.  Whereupon  I  enu- 
merated as  many  sorts  as  came  into  my  head,  with  the  various 
methods  of  dressing  them,  which  could  not  be  done  without 
sending  vessels  by  sea  to  every  part  of  the  world,  as  well  for 
liquors  to  drink,  as  for  sauces,  and  innumerable  other  conve- 
niences. I  assured  him  that  this  whole  globe  of  earth  must  be 
at  least  three  times  gone  round,  before  one  of  our  better  female 
Yahoos  could  get  her  breakfast,  or  a  cup  to  put  it  in.  He  said 
that  must  needs  be  a  miserable  country  which  cannot  furnish 


ii2  JONATHAN   SWIFT 

food  for  its  own  inhabitants.  But  what  he  chiefly  wondered  at, 
was  how  such  vast  tracts  of  ground  as  I  described  should  be 
wholly  without  fresh  water,  and  the  people  put  to  the  necessity 
of  sending  over  the  sea  for  drink.  I  replied  that  England  (the 
dear  place  of  my  nativity)  was  computed  to  produce  three 
times  the  quantity  of  food  more  than  its  inhabitants  are  able 
to  consume,  as  well  as  liquors  extracted  from  grain,  or  pressed 
out  of  the  fruit  of  certain  trees,  which  made  excellent  drink; 
and  the  same  proportion  in  every  other  convenience  of  life.  But 
in  order  to  feed  the  luxury  and  intemperance  of  the  males,  and 
the  vanity  of  the  females,  we  sent  away  the  greatest  part  of 
our  necessary  things  to  other  countries,  from  whence,  in  return, 
we  brought  the  materials  of  diseases,  folly,  and  vice,  to  spend 
among  ourselves.  Hence  it  follows  of  necessity  that  vast  num- 
bers of  our  people  are  compelled  to  seek  their  livelihood  by 
begging,  robbing,  stealing,  cheating,  pimping,  forswearing,  flat- 
tering, suborning,  forging,  gaming,  lying,  fawning,  hectoring, 
voting,  scribbling,  star-gazing,  poisoning,  whoring,  canting, 
libeling,  free- thinking,  and  the  like  occupations ;  every  one  of 
which  terms  I  was  at  much  pains  to  make  him  understand. 

That  wine  was  not  imported  among  us  from  foreign  coun- 
tries, to  supply  the  want  of  water,  or  other  drinks,  but  because 
it  was  a  sort  of  liquid  which  made  us  merry,  by  putting  us  out 
of  our  senses;  diverted  all  melancholy  thoughts,  begat  wild  ex- 
travagant imaginations  in  the  brain,  raised  our  hopes,  and  ban- 
ished our  fears;  suspended  every  office  of  reason  for  a  time,  and 
deprived  us  of  the  use  of  our  limbs,  till  we  fell  into  a  profound 
sleep;  although  it  must  be  confessed  that  we  always  awaked 
sick  and  dispirited,  and  that  the  use  of  this  liquor  filled  us  with 
diseases  which  made  our  lives  uncomfortable  and  short. 

But,  beside  all  this,  the  bulk  of  our  people  supported  them- 
selves by  furnishing  the  necessities  or  conveniences  of  life  to 
the  rich,  and  to  each  other.  For  instance,  when  I  am  at  home, 
and  dressed  as  I  ought  to  be,  I  carry  on  my  body  the  workman- 
ship of  an  hundred  tradesmen;  the  building  and  furniture  of 
my  house  employ  as  many  more,  and  five  times  the  number  to 
adorn  my  wife. 

I  was  going  on  to  tell  him  of  another  sort  of  people,  who  get 
their  livelihood  by  attending  the  sick,  having  upon  some  occa- 
sions informed  his  Honor  that  many  of  my  crew  had  died  of 


GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS  113 

diseases.  But  here  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  I 
brought  him  to  apprehend  what  I  meant.  He  could  easily  con- 
ceive that  a  Houyhnhnm  grew  weak  and  heavy  a  few  days  be- 
fore his  death;  or,  by  some  accident,  might  hurt  a  limb.  But 
that  Nature,  who  works  all  things  to  perfection,  should  suffer 
any  pains  to  breed  in  our  bodies,  he  thought  impossible,  and 
desired  to  know  the  reason  of  so  unaccountable  an  evil.  I  told 
him,  we  fed  on  a  thousand  things,  which  operated  contrary  to 
each  other;  that  we  ate  when  we  were  not  hungry,  and  drank 
without  the  provocation  of  thirst;  that  we  sat  whole  nights 
drinking  strong  liquors,  without  eating  a  bit,  which  disposed  us 
to  sloth,  inflamed  our  bodies,  and  precipitated  or  prevented 
digestion.  That  it  would  be  endless  to  give  him  a  catalogue  of 
all  diseases  incident  to  human  bodies,  for  they  could  not  be 
fewer  than  five  or  six  hundred,  spread  over  every  limb  and 
joint;  in  short,  every  part,  external' and  intestine,  having  dis- 
eases appropriated  to  each.  To  remedy  which,  there  was  a  sort 
of  people  bred  up  among  us^  in  the  profession,  or  pretence,  of 
curing  the  sick.  And,  because  I  had  some  skill  in  the  faculty, 
I  would,  in  gratitude  to  his  Honor,  let  him  know  the  whole 
mystery  and  method  by  which  they  proceed. 

Their  fundamental  idea  is,  that  all  diseases  arise  from  reple- 
tion ;  from  whence  they  conclude  that  a  great  evacuation  of  the 
body  is  necessary.  Their  next  business  is,  from  herbs,  miner- 
als, gums,  oils,  shells,  salts,  juices,  seaweed,  excrements,  barks 
of  trees,  serpents,  toads,  frogs,  spiders,  dead  men's  flesh  and 
bones,  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes,  to  form  a  composition  for  smell 
and  taste  the  most  abominable,  nauseous,  and  detestable  they 
can  possibly  contrive,  which  the  stomach  immediately  rejects 
with  loathing;  and  this  they  call  a  vomit.  Or  else,  from  the 
same  storehouse,  with  some  other  poisonous  additions,  they 
command  us  to  take  in  a  medicine  equally  annoying  and  dis- 
gustful to  the  bowels.  .  .  . 

But,  besides  real  diseases,  we  are  subject  to  many  that  are 
only  imaginary,  for  which  the  physicians  have  invented  im- 
aginary cures;  these  have  their  several  names,  and  so  have  the 
drugs  that  are  proper  for  them;  and  with  these  our  female 
Yahoos  are  always  infested.  .  .  . 


ii4  JONATHAN   SWIFT 


A   MODEST   PROPOSAL 

FOR   PREVENTING   THE   CHILDREN   OF   POOR   PEOPLE 

IN    IRELAND    FROM    BEING   A    BURDEN    TO 

THEIR   PARENTS    OR   COUNTRY,    AND 

FOR   MAKING   THEM    BENEFICIAL 

TO   THE   PUBLIC 

1729 

[This  is  the  most  famous  of  Swift's  tracts  on  Irish  affairs,  occasioned  by 
his  long  residence  in  Dublin  and  his  concern  for  the  suffering  and  wrongs 
of  the  Irish  people;  it  is  also  the  most  terrible  example  of  his  caustic  irony. 
Craik  remarks:  "He  adopts  the  phraseology,  the  outward  style,  the  man- 
nerisms of  the  humorist;  but  it  is  only  to  give  intensity  to  the  irony." 
And  Prescott:  "To  overlook  Swift's  serious  purpose  is  entirely  to  mis- 
understand the  piece.  Take  the  passage  in  which  Swift  proposes  remedies, 
—  the  expedients  rejected,  in  the  ironical  presentation,  being  of  course  the 
very  ones  which  he  wishes  seriously  to  recommend."] 

• 

IT  is  a  melancholy  object  to  those  who  walk  through  this 
great  town,  or  travel  in  the  country,  when  they  see  the  streets, 
the  roads,  and  cabin-doors,  crowded  with  beggars  of  the  female 
sex,  followed  by  three,  four,  or  six  children,  all  in  rags,  and 
importuning  every  passenger  for  an  alms.  These  mothers, 
instead  of  being  able  to  work  for  their  honest  livelihood,  are 
forced  to  employ  all  their  time  in  strolling  to  beg  sustenance  for 
their  helpless  infants;  who,  as  they  grow  up,  either  turn  thieves 
for  want  of  work,  or  leave  their  dear  native  country  to  fight 
for  the  Pretender  in  Spain,  or  sell  themselves  to  the  Barbadoes. 

I  think  it  is  agreed  by  all  parties  that  this  prodigious  number 
of  children  in  the  arms,  or  on  the  backs,  or  at  the  heels  of  their 
mothers,  and  frequently  of  their  fathers,  is,  in  the  present 
deplorable  state  of  the  kingdom,  a  very  great  additional  griev- 
ance; and  therefore  whoever  could  find  out  a  fair,  cheap,  and 
easy  method  of  making  these  children  sound,  useful  members 
of  the  commonwealth,  would  deserve  so  well  of  the  public  as 
to  have  his  statue  set  up  for  a  preserver  of  the  nation. 

But  my  intention  is  very  far  from  being  confined  to  provide 
only  for  the  children  of  professed  beggars;  it  is  of  a  much 
greater  extent,  and  shall  take  in  the  whole  number  of  infants 
at  a  certain  age,  who  are  born  of  parents  in  effect  as  little  able 


A  MODEST  PROPOSAL  115 

to  support  them,  as  those  who  demand  our  charity  in  the 
streets. 

As  to  my  own  part,  having  turned  my  thoughts  for  many 
years  upon  this  important  subject,  and  maturely  weighed  the 
several  schemes  of  our  projectors,  I  have  always  found  them 
grossly  mistaken  in  their  computation.  It  is  true  a  child  just 
born  may  be  supported  by  its  mother's  milk  for  a  solar  year, 
with  little  other  nourishment;  at  most,  not  above  the  value  of 
two  shillings,  which  the  mother  may  certainly  get,  or  the  value 
in  scraps, by  her  lawful  occupation  of  begging;  and  it  is  exactly 
at  one  year  old  that  I  propose  to  provide  for  them  in  such  a 
manner  as,  instead  of  being  a  charge  upon  their  parents  or  the 
parish,  or  wanting  food  and  raiment  for  the  rest  of  their  lives, 
they  shall  on  the  contrary  contribute  to  the  feeding,  and  partly 
to  the  clothing,  of  many  thousands. 

There  is  likewise  another  great  advantage  in  my  scheme, 
that  it  will  prevent  those  voluntary  abortions,  and  that  hor- 
rid practice  of  women  murdering  their  bastard  children,  alas, 
too  frequent  among  us!  sacrificing  the  poor  innocent  babes,  I 
doubt  more  to  avoid  the  expense  than  the  shame,  which  would 
move  tears  and  pity  in  the  most  savage  and  inhuman  breast. 

The  number  of  souls  in  this  kingdom  being  usually  reckoned 
one  million  and  a  half,  of  these  I  calculate  there  may  be  about 
two  hundred  thousand  couple  whose  wives  are  breeders;  from 
which  number  I  subtract  thirty  thousand  couple,  who  are  able 
to  maintain  their  own  children  (although  I  apprehend  there 
cannot  be  so  many,  under  the  present  distresses  of  the  king- 
dom) ;  but  this  being  granted,  there  will  remain  a  hundred  and 
seventy  thousand  breeders.  I  again  subtract  fifty  thousand, 
for  those  women  who  miscarry,  or  whose  children  die  by  acci- 
dent or  disease  within  the  year.  There  only  remain  a  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  children  of  poor  parents  annually  born. 
The  question  therefore  is,  How  this  number  shall  be  reared  and 
provided  for?  which,  as  I  have  already  said,  under  the  present 
situation  of  affairs  is  utterly  impossible  by  all  the  methods 
hitherto  proposed.  For  we  can  neither  employ  them  in  handi- 
craft or  agriculture;  we  neither  build  houses  (I  mean  in  the 
country)  nor  cultivate  land;  they  can  very  seldom  pick  up  a 
livelihood  by  stealing,  till  they  arrive  at  six  years  old,  except 
where  they  are  of  towardly  parts,  —  although  I  confess  they 


n6  JONATHAN   SWIFT 

learn  the  rudiments  much  earlier;  during  which  time  they  can, 
however,  be  properly  looked  upon  only  as  probationers;  as  I 
have  been  informed  by  a  principal  gentleman  in  the  county  of 
Cavan,  who  protested  to  me  that  he  never  knew  above  one  or 
two  instances  under  the  age  of  six,  even  in  a  part  of  the  king- 
dom so  renowned  for  the  quickest  proficiency  in  that  art. 

I  am  assured  by  our  merchants  that  a  boy  or  a  girl  before 
twelve  years  old  is  no  saleable  commodity;  and  even  when  they 
come  to  this  age  they  will  not  yield  above  three  pounds,  or  three 
pounds  and  half-a-crown  at  most,  on  the  exchange;  which  can- 
not turn  to  account  either  to  the  parents  or  kingdom,  the  charge 
of  nutriment  and  rags  having  been  at  least  four  times  that 
value. 

I  shall  now,  therefore,  humbly  propose  my  own  thoughts, 
which  I  hope  will  not  be  liable  to  the  least  objection. 

I  have  been  assured  by  a  very  knowing  American  of  my 
acquaintance  in  London,  that  a  young  healthy  child,  well 
nursed,  is,  at  a  year  old,  a  most  delicious,  nourishing,  and 
wholesome  food,  whether  stewed,  roasted,  baked,  or  boiled; 
and  I  make  no  doubt  that  it  will  equally  serve  in  a  fricassee  or 
a  ragout. 

I  do  therefore  humbly  offer  it  to  public  consideration,  that 
of  the  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  children  already  com- 
puted, twenty  thousand  may  be  reserved  for  breed,  whereof 
only  one-fourth  part  to  be  males;  which  is  more  than  we  allow 
to  sheep,  black-cattle,  or  swine;  and  my  reason  is,  that  these 
children  are  seldom  the  fruits  of  marriage,  a  circumstance  not 
much  regarded  by  our  savages;  therefore  one  male  will  be 
sufficient  for  four  females.  That  the  remaining  hundred  thou- 
sand may,  at  a  year  old,  be  offered  in  sale  to  the  persons  of 
quality  and  fortune  through  the  kingdom ;  always  advising  the 
mother  to  let  them  suck  plentifully  in  the  last  month,  so  as  to 
render  them  plump  and  fat  for  a  good  table.  A  child  will  make 
two  dishes  at  an  entertainment  for  friends ;  and  when  the  fam- 
ily dines  alone,  the  fore  or  hind  quarter  will  make  a  reasonable 
dish,  and,  seasoned  with  a  little  pepper  or  salt,  will  be  very 
good  boiled  on  the  fourth  day,  especially  in  winter. 

I  have  reckoned,  upon  a  medium,  that  a  child  just  born  will 
weigh  twelve  pounds,  and  in  a  solar  year,  if  tolerably  nursed, 
will  increase  to  twenty-eight  pounds. 


A  MODEST  PROPOSAL  117 

I  grant  this  food  will  be  somewhat  dear,  and  therefore  very 
proper  for  landlords,  who,  as  they  have  already  devoured  most 
of  the  parents,  seem  to  have  the  best  title  to  the  children.  .  .  . 

I  have  already  computed  the  charge  of  nursing  a  beggar's 
child  (in  which  list  I  reckon  all  cottagers,  laborers,  and  four- 
fifths  of  the  farmers)  to  be  about  two  shillings  per  annum,  rags 
included ;  and  I  believe  no  gentleman  would  repine  to  give  ten 
shillings  for  the  carcass  of  a  good  fat  child,  which,  as  I  have 
said,  will  make  four  dishes  of  excellent  nutritive  meat,  when 
he  has  only  some  particular  friend,  or  his  own  family,  to  dine 
with  him.  Thus  the  squire  will  learn  to  be  a  good  landlord, 
and  grow  popular  among  his  tenants;  the  mother  will  have  eight 
shillings  net  profit,  and  be  fit  for  work  till  she  produces  another 
child. 

Those  who  are  more  thrifty  (as  I  must  confess  the  times 
require)  may  flay  the  carcass;  the  skin  of  which,  artificially 
dressed,  will  make  admirable  gloves  for  ladies,  and  summer- 
boots  for  fine  gentlemen. 

As  to  our  city  of  Dublin,  shambles  may  be  appointed  for  this 
purpose  in  the  most  convenient  parts  of  it,  and  butchers  we 
may  be  assured  will  not  be  wanting;  although  I  rather  recom- 
mend buying  the  children  alive,  then  dressing  them  hot  from 
the  knife,  as  we  do  roasting  pigs. 

A  very  worthy  person,  a  true  lover  of  his  country,  and  whose 
virtues  I  highly  esteem,  was  lately  pleased,  in  discoursing  on 
this  matter,  to  offer  a  refinement  upon  my  scheme.  He  said 
that,  many  gentlemen  of  this  kingdom  having  of  late  destroyed 
their  deer,  he  conceived  that  the  want  of  venison  might  be  well 
supplied  by  the  bodies  of  young  lads  and  maidens,  not  exceed- 
ing fourteen  years  of  age,  nor  under  twelve;  so  great  a  number 
of  both  sexes  in  every  country  being  now  ready  to  starve  for 
want  of  work  and  service ;  and  these  to  be  disposed  of  by  their 
parents,  if  alive,  or  otherwise  by  their  nearest  relations.  But, 
with  due  deference  to  so  excellent  a  friend,  and  so  deserving  a 
patriot,  I  cannot  be  altogether  in  his  sentiments;  for  as  to  the 
males,  my  American  acquaintance  assured  me,  from  frequent 
experience,  that  their  flesh  was  generally  tough  and  lean,  like 
that  of  our  schoolboys,  by  continual  exercise,  and  their  taste 
disagreeable;  and  to  fatten  them  would  not  answer  the  charge. 
Then  as  to  the  females,  it  would,  I  think,  with  humble  submis- 


ii8  JONATHAN   SWIFT 

sion,  be  a  loss  to  the  public,  because  they  soon  would  become 
breeders  themselves.  And  besides,  it  is  not  improbable  that 
some  scrupulous  people  might  be  apt  to  censure  such  a  prac- 
tice (although  indeed  very  unjustly),  as  a  little  bordering  upon 
cruelty ;  which,  I  confess,  has  always  been  with  me  the  strongest 
objection  against  any  project,  how  well  soever  intended. 

But  in  order  to  justify  my  friend,  he  confessed  that  this 
expedient  was  put  into  his  head  by  the  famous  Psalmanazar, 
a  native  of  the  island  Formosa,  who  came  from  thence  to  Lon- 
don above  twenty  years  ago,  and  in  conversation  told  my 
friend  that  in  his  country,  when  any  young  person  happened 
to  be  put  to  death,  the  executioner  sold  the  carcass  to  persons 
of  quality  as  a  prime  dainty ;  and  that  in  his  time  the  body  of  a 
plump  girl  of  fifteen,  who  was  crucified  for  an  attempt  to 
poison  the  emperor,  was  sold  to  his  imperial  majesty's  prime 
minister  of  state,  and  other  great  mandarins  of  the  court,  in 
joints  from  the  gibbet,  at  four  hundred  crowns.  Neither  in- 
deed can  I  deny  that,  if  the  same  use  were  made  of  several 
plump  young  girls  in  this  town,  who,  without  one  single  groat 
to  their  fortunes,  cannot  stir  abroad  without  a  chair,  and  ap- 
pear at  playhouse  and  assemblies  in  foreign  fineries  which  they 
never  will  pay  for,  the  kingdom  would  not  be  the  worse. 

Some  persons  of  a  desponding  spirit  are  in  great  concern 
about  that  vast  number  of  poor  people  who  are  aged,  diseased, 
or  maimed;  and  I  have  been  desired  to  employ  my  thoughts, 
what  course  may  be  taken  to  ease  the  nation  of  so  grievous  an 
encumbrance.  But  I  am  not  in  the  least  pain  upon  that  matter, 
because  it  is  very  well  known  that  they  are  every  day  dying, 
and  rotting,  by  cold  and  famine,  and  filth  and  vermin,  as  fast 
as  can  be  reasonably  expected.  And  as  to  the  young  laborers, 
they  are  now  in  almost  as  hopeful  a  condition ;  they  cannot  get 
work,  and  consequently  pine  away  for  want  of  nourishment, 
to  a  degree  that,  if  at  any  time  they  are  accidentally  hired  to 
common  labor,  they  have  not  strength  to  perform  it;  and  thus 
the  country  and  themselves  are  happily  delivered  from  the 
evils  to  come. 

I  have  too  long  digressed,  and  therefore  shall  return  to  my 
subject.  I  think  the  advantages  by  the  proposal  which  I  have 
made  are  obvious  and  many,  as  well  as  of  the  highest  import- 
ance. 


A  MODEST  PROPOSAL  ng 

For  first,  as  I  have  already  observed,  it  would  greatly  lessen 
the  number  of  Papists,  with  whom  we  are  yearly  overrun, 
being  the  principal  breeders  of  the  nation,  as  well  as  our  most 
dangerous  enemies;  and  who  stay  at  home  on  purpose  to  de- 
liver the  kingdom  to  the  Pretender,  hoping  to  take  their  ad- 
vantage by  the  absence  of  so  many  good  Protestants,  who  have 
chosen  rather  to  leave  their  country  than  stay  at  home  and  pay 
tithes  against  their  conscience  to  an  Episcopal  curate. 

Secondly,  The  poorer  tenants  will  have  something  valuable 
of  their  own,  which  by  law  may  be  made  liable  to  distress,  and 
help  to  pay  their  landlord's  rent;  their  corn  and  cattle  being 
already  seized,  and  money  a  thing  unknown. 

Thirdly,  Whereas  the  maintenance  of  a  hundred  thousand 
children,  from  two  years  old  and  upward,  cannot  be  computed 
at  less  than  ten  shillings  apiece  per  annum,  the  nation's  stock 
will  be  thereby  increased  fifty  thousand  pounds  per  annum, 
beside  the  profit  of  a  new  dish  introduced  to  the  tables  of  all 
gentlemen  of  fortune  in  the  kingdom,  who  have  any  refinement 
in  taste.  And  the  money  will  circulate  among  ourselves,  the 
goods  being  entirely  of  our  own  growth  and  manufacture. 

Fourthly,  The  constant  breeders,  beside  the  gain  of  eight 
shillings  sterling  per  annum  by  the  sale  of  their  children,  will 
be  rid  of  the  charge  of  maintaining  them  after  the  first  year. 

Fifthly,  This  food  would  likewise  bring  great  custom  to  tav- 
erns ;  where  the  vintners  will  certainly  be  so  prudent  as  to  pro- 
cure the  best  receipts  for  dressing  it  to  perfection,  and,  con- 
sequently, have  their  houses  frequented  by  all  the  fine  gentle- 
men, who  justly  value  themselves  upon  their  knowledge  in 
good  eating;  and  a  skillful  cook,  who  understands  how  to  oblige 
his  guests,  will  contrive  to  make  it  as  expensive  as  they  please. 

Sixthly,  This  would  be  a  great  inducement  to  marriage, 
which  all  wise  nations  have  either  encouraged  by  rewards,  or 
enforced  by  laws  and  penalties.  It  would  increase  the  care  and 
tenderness  of  mothers  toward  their  children,  when  they  were 
sure  of  a  settlement  for  life  to  the  poor  babes,  provided  in  some 
sort  by  the  public,  to  their  annual  profit  or  expense.  We  should 
see  an  honest  emulation  among  the  married  women,  which  of 
them  could  bring  the  fattest  child  to  the  market. 

Many  other  advantages  might  be  enumerated.  For  instance, 
the  addition  of  some  thousand  carcasses  in  our  exportation  of 


120  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

barreled  beef;  the  propagation  of  swine's  flesh,  and  improve- 
ment in  the  art  of  making  good  bacon,  so  much  wanted  among 
us  by  the  great  destruction  of  pigs,  too  frequent  at  our  table; 
which  are  no  way  comparable  in  taste  or  magnificence  to  a  well- 
grown,  fat,  yearling  child,  which,  roasted  whole,  will  make  a 
considerable  figure  at  a  lord  mayor's  feast,  or  any  other  public 
entertainment.  But  this,  and  many  others,  I  omit,  being  stu- 
dious of  brevity. 

Supposing  that  one  thousand  families  in  this  city  would  be 
constant  customers  for  infants'  flesh,  beside  others  who  might 
have  it  at  merry-meetings,  particularly  at  weddings  and  chris- 
tenings, I  compute  that  Dublin  would  take  off  annually  about 
twenty  thousand  carcases;  and  the  rest  of  the  kingdom  (where 
probably  they  will  be  sold  somewhat  cheaper)  the  remaining 
eighty  thousand. 

I  can  think  of  no  one  objection  that  will  possibly  be  raised 
against  this  proposal,  unless  it  should  be  urged  that  the  num- 
ber of  people  will  be  thereby  much  lessened  in  the  kingdom. 
This  I  freely  own,  and  it  was  indeed  one  principal  design  in 
offering  it  to  the  world.  I  desire  the  reader  will  observe  that  I 
calculate  my  remedy  for  this  one  individual  kingdom  of  Ire- 
land, and  for  no  other  that  ever  was,  is,  or  I  think  ever  can  be. 
upon  earth.  Therefore  let  no  man  talk  to  me  of  other  expedi- 
ents: of  taxing  our  absentees  at  five  shillings  a  pound;  of  using 
neither  clothes,  nor  household  furniture,  except  what  is  our 
own  growth  and  manufacture;  of  utterly  rejecting  the  materials 
and  instruments  that  promote  foreign  luxury;  of  curing  the 
expensiveness  of  pride,  vanity,  idleness,  and  gaming  in  our 
women;  of  introducing  a  vein  of  parsimony,  prudence,  and 
temperance;  of  learning  to  love  our  country,  in  the  want  of 
which  we  differ  even  from  Laplanders,  and  the  inhabitants  of 
Topinamboo;  of  quitting  our  animosities  and  factions,  nor 
acting  any  longer  like  the  Jews,  who  were  murdering  one  an- 
other at  the  very  moment  their  city  was  taken;  of  being  a  little 
cautious  not  to  sell  our  country  and  conscience  for  nothing;  of 
teaching  landlords  to  have  at  least  one  degree  of  mercy  toward 
their  tenants;  lastly,  of  putting  a  spirit  of  honesty,  industry, 
and  skill  into  our  shopkeepers,  who,  if  a  resolution  could  now 
be  taken  to  buy  only  our  native  goods,  would  immediately 
unite  to  cheat  and  exact  upon  us  in  the  price,  the  measure,  and 


A  MODEST  PROPOSAL  121 

the  goodness,  nor  could  ever  yet  be  brought  to  make  one  fair 
proposal  of  just  dealing,  though  often  and  earnestly  invited 
to  it. 

Therefore  I  repeat,  let  no  man  talk  to  me  of  these  and  the 
like  expedients,  till  he  has  at  least  some  glimpse  of  hope  that 
there  will  be  ever  some  hearty  and  sincere  attempt  to  put  them 
in  practice. 

But,  as  to  myself,  having  been  wearied  out  for  many  years 
with  offering  vain,  idle,  visionary  thoughts,  and  at  length 
utterly  despairing  of  success,  I  fortunately  fell  upon  this  pro- 
posal; which,  as  it  is  wholly  new,  so  it  has  something  solid  and 
real,  of  no  expense  and  little  trouble,  full  in  our  own  power, 
and  whereby  we  can  incur  no  danger  in  disobliging  England. 
For  this  kind  of  commodity  will  not  bear  exportation,  the  flesh 
being  of  too  tender  a  consistence  to  admit  a  long  continuance 
in  salt,  although  perhaps  I  could  name  a  country  which  would 
be  glad  to  eat  up  our  whole  nation  without  it. 

After  all,  I  am  not  so  violently  bent  upon  my  own  opinion 
as  to  reject  any  offer  proposed  by  wise  men,  which  shall  be 
found  equally  innocent,  cheap,  easy,  and  effectual.  But  before 
something  of  that  kind  shall  be  advanced  in  contradiction  to 
my  scheme,  and  offering  a  better,  I  desire  the  author,  or 
authors,  will  be  pleased  maturely  to  consider  two  points.  First, 
as  things  now  stand,  how  they  will  be  able  to  find  food  and 
raiment  for  a  hundred  thousand  useless  mouths  and  backs. 
And,  secondly,  there  being  a  round  million  of  creatures  in 
human  figure  throughout  this  kingdom,  whose  whole  subsist- 
ence put  into  a  common  stock  would  leave  them  in  debt  two 
millions  of  pounds  sterling,  adding  those  who  are  beggars  by 
profession,  to  the  bulk  of  farmers,  cottagers,  and  laborers,  with 
the  wives  and  children  who  are  beggars  in  effect, — I  desire  those 
politicians  who  dislike  my  overture,  and  may  perhaps  be  so 
bold  as  to  attempt  an  answer,  that  they  will  first  ask  the 
parents  of  these  mortals,  whether  they  would  not  at  this  day 
think  it  a  great  happiness  to  have  been  sold  for  food  at  a  year 
old,  in  the  manner  I  prescribe,  and  thereby  have  avoided  such 
a  perpetual  scene  of  misfortunes  as  they  have  since  gone 
through,  by  the  oppression  of  landlords,  the  impossibility  of 
paying  rent  without  money  or  trade,  the  want  of  common 
sustenance,  with  neither  house  nor  clothes  to  cover  them  from 


122  JONATHAN   SWIFT 

the  inclemencies  of  the  weather,  and  the  most  inevitable  pros- 
pect of  entailing  the  like  or  greater  miseries  upon  their  breed 
for  ever. 

I  profess,  in  the  sincerity  of  my  heart,  that  I  have  not  the 
least  personal  interest  in  endeavoring  to  promote  this  neces- 
sary work,  having  no  other  motive  than  the  public  good  of  my 
country,  by  advancing  our  trade,  providing  for  infants,  reliev- 
ing the  poor,  and  giving  some  pleasure  to  the  rich.  I  have  no 
children  by  which  I  can  propose  to  get  a  single  penny;  the 
youngest  being  nine  years  old,  and  my  wife  past  child-bearing. 


RICHARD   STEELE 
THE   TATLER 

[This  periodical  was  founded  by  Steele,  and  issued  three  times  a  week 
for  271  numbers,  from  April,  1709,  to  January,  1711.  Steele  himself  wrote 
about  1 88  of  these.  The  papers  were  supposed  to  be  written  by  one  Isaac 
Bickerstaff,  a  pseudonym  which  had  been  used  by  Swift  in  certain  pam- 
phlets in  which  he  attacked,  and  predicted  the  death  of,  an  astrologer 
named  Partridge.  (See  the  allusion  to  this  practical  joke  in  the  extracts 
from  the  first  number.)] 

No.  i.  TUESDAY,  APRIL  12,  1709 

Quicquid  agunl  homines  .  .  .  noslri  farrago  libelli.  —  Juv.,  Sat.  I,  85, 86. 

THOUGH  the  other  papers  which  are  published  for  the  use  of 
the  good  people  of  England  have  certainly  very  wholesome 
effects,  and  are  laudable  in  their  particular  kinds,  yet  they  do 
not  seem  to  come  up  to  the  main  design  of  such  narrations, 
which,  I  humbly  presume,  should  be  principally  intended  for 
the  use  of  politic  persons,  who  are  so  public-spirited  as  to 
neglect  their  own  affairs  to  look  into  transactions  of  state. 
Now  these  gentlemen,  for  the  most  part,  being  men  of  strong 
zeal  and  weak  intellects,  it  is  both  a  charitable  and  a  necessary 
work  to  offer  something  whereby  such  worthy  and  well- 
affected  members  of  the  commonwealth  may  be  instructed, 
after  their  reading,  what  to  think;  which  shall  be  the  end  and 
purpose  of  this  my  paper;  wherein  I  shall  from  time  to  time 
report  and  consider  all  matters  of  what  kind  soever  that  shall 
occur  to  me,  and  publish  such  my  advices  and  reflections  every 
Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday  in  the  week,  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  post.  I  have  also  resolved  to  have  something 
which  may  be  of  entertainment  to  the  fair  sex,  in  honor  of 
whom  I  have  taken  the  title  of  this  paper.  I  therefore  earn- 
estly desire  all  persons,  without  distinction,  to  take  it  in  for 
the  present  gratis,  and  hereafter  at  the  price  of  one  penny, 
forbidding  all  hawkers  to  take  more  for  it  at  their  peril.  And 
I  desire  my  readers  to  consider  that  I  am  at  a  very  great  charge 
for  proper  materials  for  this  work,  as  well  as  that,  before  I 


i24  RICHARD   STEELE 

resolved  upon  it,  I  had  settled  a  correspondence  in  all  parts  of 
the  known  and  knowing  world.  And  forasmuch  as  this  globe  is 
not  trodden  upon  by  mere  drudges  of  business  only,  but  that 
men  of  spirit  and  genius  are  justly  to  be  esteemed  as  consider- 
able agents  in  it,  we  shall  not,  upon  a  dearth  of  news,  present 
you  with  musty  foreign  edicts,  or  dull  proclamations,  but  shall 
divide  our  relation  of  the  passages  which  occur  in  action  or  dis- 
course throughout  this  town,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  under  such 
dates  of  places  as  may  prepare  you  for  the  matter  you  are  to 
expect;  in  the  following  manner: 

All  accounts  of  gallantry,  pleasure,  and  entertainment  shall 
be  under  the  article  of  White's  Chocolate-house;  poetry,  un- 
der that  of  Will's  Coffee-house;  learning,  under  the  title  of 
Grecian;  foreign  and  domestic  news  you  will  have  from  St. 
James's  Coffee-house;  and  what  else  I  shall  on  any  other  sub- 
ject offer,  shall  be  dated  from  my  own  apartment. 

I  once  more  desire  my  readers  to  consider  that,  as  I  cannot 
keep  an  ingenious  man  to  go  daily  to  Will's  under  twopence 
each  day  merely  for  his  charges,  to  White's  under  sixpence, 
nor  to  the  Grecian  without  allowing  him  some  plain  Spanish, 
to  be  as  able  as  others  at  the  learned  table,  and  that  a  good 
observer  cannot  speak  with  even  Kidney  *  at  St.  James's  with- 
out clean  linen,  —  I  say,  these  considerations  will,  I  hope, 
make  all  persons  willing  to  comply  with  my  humble  request 
(when  my  gratis  stock  is  exhausted)  of  a  penny  apiece;  espe- 
cially since  they  are  sure  of  some  proper  amusement,  and  that 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  want  means  to  entertain  them,  — 
having,  besides  the  helps  of  my  own  parts,  the  power  of  divi- 
nation, and  that  I  can,  by  casting  a  figure,  tell  you  all  that  will 
happen  before  it  comes  to  pass.  But  this  last  faculty  I  shall  use 
very  sparingly,  and  not  speak  of  anything  until  it  is  passed, 
for  fear  of  divulging  matters  which  may  offend  our  supe- 
riors. .  .  . 

FROM   MY    OWN    APARTMENT. 

I  am  sorry  I  am  obliged  to  trouble  the  public  with  so  much 
discourse  upon  a  matter  which  I  at  the  very  first  mentioned 
as  a  trifle,  viz.,  the  death  of  Mr.  Partridge,  under  whose  name 
there  is  an  almanac  come  out  for  the  year  1709,  in  one  page  of 
which  it  is  asserted  by  the  said  John  Partridge,  that  he  is  still 

1  A  waiter. 


THE  TATLER  125 

living,  and  that  not  only  so,  but  that  he  was  also  living  some 
time  before,  and  even  at  the  instant  when  I  writ  of  his  death. 
I  have  in  another  place,  and  in  a  paper  by  itself,  sufficiently 
convinced  this  man  that  he  is  dead;  and  if  he  has  any  shame,  I 
don't  doubt  but  that  by  this  time  he  owns  it  to  all  his  acquaint- 
ance ;  for  though  the  legs  and  arms  and  whole  body  of  that  man 
may  still  appear  and  perform  their  animal  functions,  yet  since, 
as  I  have  elsewhere  observed,  his  art  is  gone,  the  man  is  gone. 
I  am,  as  I  said,  concerned  that  this  little  matter  should  make 
so  much  noise;  but  since  I  am  engaged,  I  take  myself  obliged 
in  honor  to  go  on  in  my  lucubrations,  and  by  the  help  of  these 
arts  of  which  I  am  master,  as  well  as  my  skill  in  astrological 
speculations,  I  shall,  as  I  see  occasion,  proceed  to  confute  other 
dead  men,  who  pretend  to  be  in  being,  that  they  are  actually 
deceased.  I  therefore  give  all  men  fair  warning  to  mend  their 
manners,  for  I  shall  from  time  to  time  print  bills  of  mortality;1 
and  I  beg  the  pardon  of  all  such  who  shall  be 'named  therein, 
if  they  who  are  good  for  nothing  shall  find  themselves  in  the 
number  of  the  deceased. 

No.  25.  JUNE  7,  1709 

WHITE'S  CHOCOLATE-HOUSE. 

A  letter  from  a  young  lady,  written  in  the  most  passion- 
ate terms,  wherein  she  laments  the  misfortune  of  a  gentleman, 
her  lover,  who  was  lately  wounded  in  a  duel,  has  turned  my 
thoughts  to  that  subject,  and  inclined  me  to  examine  into  the 
causes  which  precipitate  men  into  so  fatal  a  folly.  And  as  it 
has  been  proposed  to  treat  of  subjects  of  gallantry  in  the  arti- 
cle from  hence,  and  no  one  point  of  nature  is  more  proper  to  be 
considered  by  the  company  who  frequent  this  place,  than  that 
of  duels,  it  is  worth  our  consideration  to  examine  into  this  chi- 
merical groundless  humor,  and  to  lay  every  other  thought  aside 
till  we  have  stripped  it  of  all  its  false  pretences  to  credit  and 
reputation  amongst  men.  But  I  must  confess,  when  I  consider 
what  I  am  going  about,  and  run  over  in  my  imagination  all  the 
endless  crowd  of  men  of  honor  who  will  be  offended  at  such  a 
discourse,  I  am  undertaking,  methinks,  a  work  worthy  an 
invulnerable  hero  in  romance,  rather  than  a  private  gentleman 
with  a  single  rapier.  But  as  I  am  pretty  well  acquainted  by 

1  See  note  to  page  45. 


126  RICHARD  STEELE 

great  opportunities  with  the  nature  of  man,  and  know  of  a 
truth  that  all  men  fight  against  their  will,  the  danger  vanishes, 
and  resolution  rises  upon  this  subject.  For  this  reason  I  shall 
talk  very  freely  on  a  custom  which  all  men  wish  exploded, 
though  no  man  has  courage  enough  to  resist  it.  But  there  is 
one  unintelligible  word  which  I  fear  will  extremely  perplex  my 
dissertation,  and  I  confess  to  you  I  find  very  hard  to  explain, 
which  is  the  term  "satisfaction."  An  honest  country  gentle- 
man had  the  misfortune  to  fall  into  company  with  two  or  three 
modern  men  of  honor,  where  he  happened  to  be  very  ill-treated; 
and  one  of  the  company,  being  conscious  of  his  offense,  sends  a 
note  to  him  in  the  morning,  and  tells  him  he  was  ready  to  give 
him  satisfaction.  "This  is  fine  doing,"  says  the  plain  fellow. 
"  Last  night  he  sent  me  away  cursedly  out  of  humor,  and  this 
morning  he  fancies  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  io  be  run  through 
the  body." 

As  the  matter  at  present  stands,  it  is  not  to  do  handsome 
actions  denominates  a  man  of  honor;  it  is  enough  if  he  dares 
to  defend  ill  ones.  Thus  you  often  see  a  common  sharper  in 
competition  with  a  gentleman  of  the  first  rank,  though  all 
mankind  is  convinced  that  a  fighting  gamester  is  only  a  pick- 
pocket with  the  courage  of  a  highwayman.  One  cannot  with 
any  patience  reflect  on  the  unaccountable  jumble  of  persons 
and  things  in  this  town  and  nation,  which  occasions  very 
frequently  that  a  brave  man  falls  by  a  hand  below  that  of  the 
common  hangman,  and  yet  his  executioner  escapes  the  clutches 
of  the  hangman  for  doing  it.  I  shall  therefore  hereafter  consider 
how  the  bravest  men  in  other  ages  and  nations  have  behaved 
themselves  upon  such  incidents  as  we  decide  by  combat,  and 
show,  from  their  practice,  that  this  resentment  neither  has  its 
foundation  from  true  reason  nor  solid  fame,  but  is  an  impos- 
ture, made  up  of  cowardice,  falsehood,  and  want  of  understand- 
ing. For  this  work,  a  good  history  of  quarrels  would  be  very 
edifying  to  the  public,  and  I  apply  myself  to  the  town  for  par- 
ticulars and  circumstances  within  their  knowledge,  which  may 
serve  to  embellish  the  dissertation  with  proper  cuts.  Most  cf 
the  quarrels  I  have  ever  known  have  proceeded  from  some 
valiant  coxcomb's  persisting  in  the  wrong,  to  defend  some  pre- 
vailing folly,  and  preserve  himself  from  the  ingenuity  of  own- 
ing a  mistake. 


THE  TATLER  127 

By  this  means  it  is  called  "giving  a  man  satisfaction"  to 
urge  your  offense  against  him  with  your  sword ;  which  puts  me 
in  mind  of  Peter's  order  to  the  keeper,  in  the  Tale  of  a  Tub: 
"  If  you  neglect  to  do  all  this,  damn  you  and  your  generation 
for  ever;  and  so  we  bid  you  heartily  farewell."  If  the  contra- 
diction in  the  very  terms  of  one  of  our  challenges  were  as  well 
explained,  and  turned  into  plain  English,  would  it  not  run 
after  this  manner? 

"  Sir:  Your  extraordinary  behavior  last  night,  and  the  liberty 
you  were  pleased  to  take  with  me,  makes  me  this  morning  give 
you  this,  to  tell  you,  because  you  are  an  ill-bred  puppy,  I  will 
meet  you  in  Hyde  Park  an  hour  hence ;  and  because  you  want 
both  breeding  and  humanity,  I  desire  you  would  come  with  a 
pistol  in  your  hand,  on  horseback,  and  endeavor  to  shoot  me 
through  the  head,  to  teach  you  more  manners.  If  you  fail  of 
doing  me  this  pleasure,  I  shall  say  you  are  a  rascal  on  every 
post  in  town.  And  so,  sir,  if  you  will  not  injure  me  more,  I  shall 
never  forgive  what  you  have  done  already.  Pray,  sir,  do  not 
fail  of  getting  everything  ready,  and  you  will  infinitely  oblige, 
Sir, 

Your  most  obedient, 

humble  servant,  &c."  .  .  . 

No.  95.  NOVEMBER  17,  1709 

Interea  dukes  pendent  circum  oscula  nati; 
Casta  pudicUiam  servat  domus. 

VIRG.,  Georg.  ii,  523. 

FROM  MY  OWN  APARTMENT. 

There  are  several  persons  who  have  many  pleasures  and 
entertainments  in  their  possession  which  they  do  not  enjoy. 
It  is  therefore  a  kind  and  good  office  to  acquaint  them  with 
their  own  happiness,  and  turn  their  attention  to  such  instances 
of  their  good  fortune  which  they  are  apt  to  overlook.  Persons 
in  the  married  state  often  want  such  a  monitor,  and  pine  away 
their  days  by  looking  upon  the  same  condition  in  anguish  and 
murmur  which  carries  with  it,  in  the  opinion  of  others,  a  com- 
plication of  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  a  retreat  from  its  in- 
quietudes. 

I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a  visit  I  made  an  old  friend  who 
was  formerly  my  school-fellow.  He  came  to  town  last  week 


128  RICHARD   STEELE 

with  his  family  for  the  winter,  and  yesterday  morning  sent  me 
word  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner.  I  am,  as  it  were,  at  home 
at  that  house,  and  every  member  of  it  knows  me  for  their  well- 
wisher.  I  cannot  indeed  express  the  pleasure  it  is,  to  be  met  by 
the  children  with  so  much  joy  as  I  am  when  I  go  thither;  the 
boys  and  girls  strive  who  shall  come  first,  when  they  think  it  is 
I  that  am  knocking  at  the  door;  and  that  child  which  loses  the 
race  to  me,  runs  back  again  to  tell  the  father  it  is  Mr.  Bicker- 
staff.  This  day  I  was  led  in  by  a  pretty  girl,  that  we  all  thought 
must  have  forgot  me ;  for  the  family  has  been  out  of  town  these 
two  years.  Her  knowing  me  again  was  a  mighty  subject  with 
us,  and  took  up  our  discourse  at  the  first  entrance.  After 
which  they  began  to  rally  me  upon  a  thousand  little  stories 
they  heard  in  the  country  about  my  marriage  to  one  of  my 
neighbor's  daughters;  upon  which  the  gentleman  my  friend 
said :  "  Nay,  if  Mr.  Bickerstaff  marries  a  child  of  any  of  his  old 
companions,  I  hope  mine  shall  have  the  preference.  There's 
Mrs.  Mary  is  now  sixteen,  and  would  make  him  as  fine  a  widow 
as  the  best  of  them.  But  I  know  him  too  well ;  he  is  so  enamored 
with  the  very  memory  of  those  who  flourished  in  our  youth, 
chat  he  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  the  modern  beauties.  I 
remember,  old  gentleman,  how  often  you  went  home  in  a  day 
to  refresh  your  countenance  and  dress,  when  Teraminta 
reigned  in  your  heart.  As  we  came  up  in  the  coach,  I  repeated 
to  my  wife  some  of  your  verses  on  her." 

With  such  reflections  on  little  passages  which  happened  long 
ago,  we  passed  our  time  during  a  cheerful  and  elegant  meal. 
After  dinner  his  lady  left  the  room,  as  did  also  the  children. 
As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  took  me  by  the  hand.  "  Well,  my 
good  friend,"  says  he,  "I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  thee;  I  was 
afraid  you  would  never  have  seen  all  the  company  that  dined 
with  you  to-day  again.  Do  not  you  think  the  good  woman  of 
the  house  a  little  altered,  since  you  followed  her  from  the  play- 
house, to  find  out  who  she  was,  for  me?"  I  perceived  a  tear 
fall  down  his  cheek  as  he  spoke,  which  moved  me  not  a  little. 
But  to  turn  the  discourse,  said  I,  "  She  is  not,  indeed,  quite  the 
creature  she  was  when  she  returned  me  the  letter  I  carried 
from  you,  and  told  me  she  hoped,  as  I  was  a  gentleman,  I 
would  be  employed  no  more  to  trouble  her  who  had  never 
offended  me,  but  would  be  so  much  the  gentleman's  friend  as 


THE  TATLER  129 

to  dissuade  him  from  a  pursuit  which  he  could  never  succeed  in. 
You  may  remember  I  thought  her  in  earnest,  and  you  were 
forced  to  employ  your  cousin  Will,  who  made  his  sister  get 
acquainted  with  her  for  you.  You  cannot  expect  her  to  be  for- 
ever fifteen." 

"Fifteen?"  replied  my  good  friend.   "Ah!  you  little  under- 
stand, you  that  have  lived  a  bachelor,  how  great,  how  exqui- 
site a  pleasure  there  is  in  being  really  beloved!  It  is  impossible 
that  the  most  beauteous  face  in  nature  should  raise  in  me  such 
pleasing  ideas  as  when  I  look  upon  that  excellent  woman.  That 
fading  in  her  countenance  is  chiefly  caused  by  her  watching 
with  me  in  my  fever.   This  was  followed  by  a  fit  of  sickness, 
which  had  like  to  have  carried  her  off  last  winter.   I  tell  you 
sincerely,  I  have  so  many  obligations  to  her  that  I  cannot  with 
any  sort  of  moderation  think  of  her  present  state  of  health. 
But  as  to  what  you  say  of  fifteen  —  she  gives  me  every  day 
pleasures  beyond  what  I  ever  knew  in  the  possession  of  her 
beauty  when  I  was  in  the  vigor  of  youth.   Every  moment  of 
her  life  brings  me  fresh  instances  of  her  complacency  to  my 
inclinations,  and  her  prudence  in  regard  to  my  fortune.   Eter 
face  is  to  me  much  more  beautiful  than  when  I  first  saw  it; 
there  is  no  decay  in  any  feature  which  I  cannot  trace  from  the 
very- instant  it  was  occasioned  by  some  anxious  concern  for  my 
welfare  and  interests.   Thus  at  the  same  time,  methinks,  the 
love  I  conceived  towards  her  for  what  she  was,  is  heightened 
by  my  gratitude  for  what  she  is.  The  love  of  a  wife  is  as  much 
above  the  idle  passion  commonly  called  by  that  name,  as  the 
loud  laughter  of  buffoons  is  inferior  to  the  elegant  mirth  of 
gentlemen.   Oh!  she  is  an  inestimable  jewel.   In  her  examina- 
tion of  her  household  affairs,  she  shows  a  certain  fearfulness  to 
find  a  fault,  which  makes  her  servants  obey  her  like  children; 
and  the  meanest  we  have  has  an  ingenuous  shame  for  an 
offense,  not  always  to  be  seen  in  children  in  other  families. 
I  speak  freely  to  you,  my  old  friend;  ever  since  her  sickness, 
things  that  gave  me  the  quickest  joy  before,  turn  now  to  a 
certain  anxiety.  As  the  children  play  in  the  next  room,  I  know 
the  poor  things  by  their  steps,  and  am  considering  what  they 
must  do,  should  they  lose  their  mother  in  their  tender  years. 
The  pleasure  I  used  to  take  in  telling  my  boy  stories  of  the 
battles,  and  asking  my  girl  questions  about  the  disposal  of  her 


i3o  RICHARD  STEELE 

baby,  and  the  gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into  inward  reflection 
and  melancholy." 

He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way,  when  the  good 
lady  entered,  and,  with  an  inexpressible  sweetness  in  her  coun- 
tenance, told  us  she  had  been  searching  her  closet  for  some- 
thing very  good  to  treat  such  an  old  friend  as  I  was.  Her  hus- 
band's eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  cheerfulness  of  her 
countenance,  and  I  saw  all  his  fears  vanish  in  an  instant.  The 
lady,  observing  something  in  our  looks  which  showed  we  had 
been  more  serious  than  ordinary,  and  seeing  her  husband  re- 
ceive her  with  great  concern  under  a  forced  cheerfulness,  im- 
mediately guessed  at  what  we  had  been  talking  of;  and,  apply- 
ing herself  to  me,  said,  with  a  smile,  "Mr.  Bickerstaff,  don't 
believe  a  word  of  what  he  tells  you.  I  shall  still  live  to  have  you 
for  my  second,  as  I  have  often  promised  you,  unless  he  takes 
more  care  of  himself  than  he  has  done  since  his  coming  to  town. 
You  must  know,  he  tells  me  that  he  finds  London  a  much  more 
healthy  place  than  the  country;  for  he  sees  several  of  his  old 
acquaintance  and  school-fellows  are  here  young  fellows,  with 
fair  full-bottomed  periwigs.  I  could  scarce  keep  him  this 
morning  from  going  out  open-breasted." 

My  friend,  who  is  always  extremely  delighted  with  her  agree- 
able humor,  made  her  sit  down  with  us.  She  did  it  with  that 
easiness  which  is  peculiar  to  women  of  sense,  and,  to  keep  up 
the  good  humor  she  had  brought  in  with  her,  turned  her  rail- 
lery upon  me.  "Mr.  Bickerstaff,  you  remember  you  followed 
me  one  night  from  the  playhouse;  supposing  you  should  carry 
me  thither  to-morrow  night,  and  lead  me  into  the  front  box." 

This  put  us  into  a  long  field  of  discourse  about  the  beauties 
who  were  mothers  to  the  present,  and  shone  in  the  boxes 
twenty  years  ago.  I  told  her  I  was  glad  she  had  transferred  so 
many  of  her  charms,  and  I  did  not  question  but  her  eldest 
daughter  was  within  half  a  year  of  being  a  toast.  We  were 
pleasing  ourselves  with  this  fantastical  preferment  of  the 
young  lady,  when  on  a  sudden  we  were  alarmed  with  the  noise 
of  a  drum,  and  immediately  entered  my  little  godson,  to  give 
me  a  point  of  war.  His  mother,  between  laughing  and  chiding, 
would  have  put  him  out  of  the  room ;  but  I  would  not  part  with 
him  so.  I  found,  upon  conversation  with  him,  though  he  was 
a  little  noisy  in  his  mirth,  that  the  child  had  excellent  parts, 


THE  TATLER  131 

and  was  a  great  master  of  all  the  learning  on  the  other  side 
eight  years  old.  I  perceived  him  a  very  great  historian  in 
yEsop's  fables;  but  he  frankly  declared  to  me  his  mind  that  he 
did  not  delight  in  that  learning,  because  he  did  not  believe 
they  were  true.  For  which  reason  I  found  he  had  very  much 
turned  his  studies,  for  about  a  twelvemonth  past,  into  the  lives 
and  adventures  of  Don  Belianis  of  Greece,  Guy  of  Warwick, 
the  Seven  Champions,  and  other  historians  of  that  age.  I  could 
not  but  observe  the  satisfaction  the  father  took  in  the  forward- 
ness of  his  son;  and  that  these  diversions  might  turn  to  some 
profit,  I  found  the  boy  had  made  remarks  which  might  be  of 
service  to  him  during  the  course  of  his  whole  life.  He  would 
tell  you  the  mismanagements  of  John  Hickathrift,  find  fault 
with  the  passionate  temper  in  Bevis  of  Southampton,  and 
loved  St.  George  for  being  the  champion  of  England;  and  by 
this  means  had  his  thoughts  insensibly  moulded  into  the  no- 
tions of  discretion,  virtue,  and  honor. 

I  was  extolling  his  accomplishments,  when  the  mother  told 
me  that  the  little  girl  who  led  me  in  this  morning  was  in  her 
way  a  better  scholar  than  he.  "  Betty,"  says  she,  "  deals  chiefly 
in  fairies  and  sprites;  and  sometimes,  in  a  winter  night,  will 
terrify  the  maids  with  her  accounts,  till  they  are  afraid  to  go 
up  to  bed." 

I  sat  with  them  till  it  was  very  late,  sometimes  in  merry, 
sometimes  in  serious  discourse,  with  this  particular  pleasure, 
which  gives  the  only  true  relish  to  all  conversation,  —  a  sense 
that  every  one  of  us  liked  each  other.  I  went  home  considering 
the  different  conditions  of  a  married  life  and  that  of  a  bachelor; 
and  I  must  confess  it  struck  me  with  a  secret  concern  to  reflect 
that,  whenever  I  shall  go  off ,  I  shall  leave  no  traces  behind  me. 
In  this  pensive  mood  I  returned  to  my  family,  —  that  is  to  say, 
to  my  maid,  my  dog,  and  my  cat,  who  only  can  be  the  better 
or  worse  for  what  happens  to  me. 

No.  104.  DECEMBER  8,  1709 

.  .  .  There  were  several  of  us  making  merry  at  a  friend's 
house  in  a  country  village,  when  the  sexton  of  the  parish  church 
entered  the  room  in  a  sort  of  surprise,  and  told  us  that,  as  he 
was  digging  a  grave  in  the  chancel,  a  little  blow  of  his  pick-axe 
opened  a  decayed  coffin,  in  which  there  were  several  written 


I32  RICHARD  STEELE 

papers.  Our  curiosity  was  immediately  raised,  so  that  we  went 
to  the  place  where  the  sexton  had  been  at  work,  and  found  a 
great  concourse  of  people  about  the  grave.  Among  the  rest, 
there  was  an  old  woman  who  told  us  the  person  buried  there 
was  a  lady  whose  name  I  do  not  think  fit  to  mention,  though 
there  is  nothing  in  the  story  but  what  tends  very  much  to  her 
honor.  This  lady  lived  several  years  an  exemplary  pattern  of 
conjugal  love,  and,  dying  soon  after  her  husband,  who  every 
way  answered  her  character  in  virtue  and  affection,  made  it 
her  death-bed  request  that  all  the  letters  which  she  had  re- 
ceived from  him,  both  before  and  after  her  marriage,  should 
be  buried  in  the  coffin  with  her.  These  I  found  upon  examina- 
tion were  the  papers  before  us.  Several  of  them  had  suffered 
so  much  by  time,  that  I  could  only  pick  out  a  few  words,  as  — 
"My  soul!"  "Lilies!"  "Roses!"  " Dearest  angel !"  and  the 
like.  One  of  them,  which  was  legible  throughout,  ran  thus: 

Madam:  If  you  would  know  the  greatness  of  my  love,  consider  that  of 
your  own  beauty.  That  blooming  countenance,  that  snowy  bosom,  that 
graceful  person,  return  every  moment  to  my  imagination.  The  brightness 
of  your  eyes  hath  hindered  me  from  closing  mine,  since  I  last  saw  you.  You 
may  still  add  to  your  beauties  by  a  smile.  A  frown  will  make  me  the  most 
wretched  of  men,  as  I  am  the  most  passionate  of  lovers. l 

It  filled  the  whole  company  with  a  deep  melancholy,  to  com- 
pare the  description  of  the  letter  with  the  person  that  occa- 
sioned it,  who  was  now  reduced  to  a  few  crumbling  bones  and 
a  little  mouldering  heap  of  earth.  With  much  ado  I  deciphered 
another  letter,  which  begun  with  "  My  dear,  dear  wife."  This 
gave  me  a  curiosity  to  see  how  the  style  of  one  written  in  mar- 
riage differed  from  one  written  in  courtship.  To  my  surprise, 
I  found  the  fondness  rather  augmented  than  lessened,  though 
the  panegyric  turned  upon  a  different  accomplishment.  The 
words  were  as.  follow :  — 

Before  this  short  absence  from  you,  I  did  not  know  that  I  loved  you  so 
much  as  I  really  do ;  though  at  the  same  time  I  thought  I  loved  you  as  much 
as  possible.  I  am  under  great  apprehensions  lest  you  should  have  any  un- 
easiness whilst  I  am  defrauded  of  my  share  in  it,  and  can't  think  of  tasting 
any  pleasures  that  you  don't  partake  with  me.  Pray,  my  dear,  be  careful 
of  your  health,  if  for  no  other  reason  because  you  know  I  could  not  out- 
live you.  It  is  natural  in  absence  to  make  professions  of  an  inviolable  con- 

1  These  letters  are  said  to  have  been  genuine,  and  to  have  been  written  by  Sir  Thomas 
(or  Sir  John)  Chkheley. 


THE  TATLER  133 

stancy ;  but  towards  so  much  merit  it  is  scarce  a  virtue,  expecially  when  it 
is  but  a  bare  return  to  that  of  which  you  have  given  me  such  continued 
proofs  ever  since  our  first  acquaintance.  I  am,  &c. 

It  happened  that  the  daughter  of  these  two  excellent  per- 
sons was  by  when  I  was  reading  this  letter.  At  the  sight  of  the 
coffin,  in  which  was  the  body  of  her  mother,  near  that  of  her 
father,  she  melted  into  a  flood  of  tears.  As  I  had  heard  a  great 
character  of  her  virtue,  and  observed  in  her  this  instance  of 
filial  piety,  I  could  not  resist  my  natural  inclination  of  giving 
advice  to  young  people,  and  therefore  addressed  myself  to  her. 
"  Young  lady,"  said  I,  "  you  see  how  short  is  the  possession  of 
that  beauty  in  which  Nature  has  been  so  liberal  to  you.  You 
find  the  melancholy  sight  before  you  is  a  contradiction  to  the 
first  letter  that  you  heard  on  that  subject;  whereas  you  may 
observe  the  second  letter,  which  celebrates  your  mother's  con- 
stancy, is  itself,  being  found  in  this  place,  an  argument  of  it. 
But,  Madam,  I  ought  to  caution  you  not  to  think  the  bodies 
that  lie  before  you,  your  father  and  your  mother.  Know  their 
constancy  is  rewarded  by  a  nobler  union  than  by  this  mingling 
of  their  ashes,  in  a  state  where  there  is  no  danger  or  possibility 
of  a  second  separation." 

No.  181.  JUNE  6,  1710. 

.  .  .  The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew  was  upon  the 
death  of  my  father,  at  which  time  I  was  not  quite  five  years  of 
age,  but  was  rather  amazed  at  what  all  the  house  meant,  than 
possessed  with  a  real  understanding  why  nobody  was  willing 
to  play  with  me.  I  remember  I  went  into  the  room  where  his 
body  lay,  and  my  mother  sat  weeping  alone  by  it.  I  had  my 
battledore  in  my  hand,  and  fell  a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling 
"  Papa  " ;  for  I  know  not  how  I  had  some  slight  idea  that  he  was 
locked  up  there.  My  mother  catched  me  in  her  arms,  and, 
transported  beyond  all  patience  of  the  silent  grief  she  was 
before  in,  she  almost  smothered  me  in  her  embrace,  and  told 
me,  in  a  flood  of  tears,  papa  could  not  hear  me,  and  would  play 
with  me  no  more,  for  they  were  going  to  put  him  under  ground, 
whence  he  could  never  come  to  us  again.  She  was  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  there  was  a  dignity  in 
her  grief  amidst  all  the  wildness  of  her  transport,  which,  me- 
thought,  struck  me  with  an  instinct  of  sorrow  which,  before  I 


i34  RICHARD   STEELE 

was  sensible  of  what  it  was  to  grieve,  seized  my  very  soul,  and 
has  made  pity  the  weakness  of  my  heart  ever  since.  The  mind 
in  infancy  is,  me  thinks,  like  the  body  in  embryo,  and  receives 
impressions  so  forcible  that  they  are  as  hard  to  be  removed  by 
reason,  as  any  mark  with  which  a  child  is  born  is  to  be  taken 
away  by  any  future  application.  Hence  it  is  that  good-nature 
in  me  is  no  merit,  but,  having  been  so  frequently  overwhelmed 
with  her  tears  before  I  knew  the  cause  of  any  affliction,  or 
could  draw  defenses  from  my  own  judgment,  I  imbibed  con- 
sideration, remorse,  and  an  unmanly  gentleness  of  mind,  which 
has  since  ensnared  me  into  ten  thousand  calamities,  and  from 
whence  I  can  reap  no  advantage,  except  it  be  that  in  such  a 
humor  as  I  am  now  in,  I  can  the  better  indulge  myself  in  the 
softnesses  of  humanity,  and  enjoy  that  sweet  anxiety  which 
arises  from  the  memory  of  past  afflictions. 

We  that  are  very  old  are  better  able  to  remember  things 
which  befell  us  in  our  distant  youth,  than  the  passages  of  later 
days.  For  this  reason  it  is  that  the  companions  of  my  strong 
and  vigorous  years  present  themselves  more  immediately  to 
me  in  this  office  of  sorrow.  Untimely  or  unhappy  deaths  are 
what  we  are  most  apt  to  lament,  so  little  are  we  able  to  make  it 
indifferent  when  a  thing  happens,  though  we  know  it  must 
happen.  Thus  we  groan  under  life,  and  bewail  those  who  are 
relieved  from  it.  Every  object  that  returns  to  our  imagination 
raises  different  passions  according  to  the  circumstance  of  their 
departure.  Who  can  have  lived  in  an  army,  and  in  a  serious 
hour  reflect  upon  the  many  gay  and  agreeable  men  that  might 
long  have  flourished  in  the  arts  of  peace,  and  not  join  with  the 
imprecations  of  the  fatherless  and  widow  on  the  tyrant  to 
whose  ambition  they  fell  sacrifices?  But  gallant  men  who  are 
cut  off  by  the  sword  move  rather  our  veneration  than  our  pity, 
and  we  gather  relief  enough  from  their  own  contempt  of  death, 
to  make  it  no  evil,  which  was  approached  with  so  much  cheer- 
fulness and  attended  with  so  much  honor.  But  when  we  turn 
our  thoughts  from  the  great  parts  of  life  on  such  occasions, 
and,  instead  of  lamenting  those  who  stood  ready  to  give  death 
to  those  from  whom  they  had  the  fortune  to  receive  it,  —  I 
say,  when  we  let  our  thoughts  wander  from  such  noble  objects, 
and  consider  the  havoc  which  is  made  among  the  tender  and 
the  innocent,  pity  enters  with  an  unmixed  softness,  and  pos- 
sesses our  soul?  at  once. 


THE  TATLER  135 

Here,  were  there  words  to  express  such  sentiments  with 
proper  tenderness,  I  should  record  the  beauty,  innocence,  and 
untimely  death  of  the  first  object  my  eyes  ever  beheld  with 
love.  The  beauteous  virgin!  How  ignorantly  did  she  charm, 
how  carelessly  excel!  O  Death!  thou  hast  right  to  the  bold,  to 
the  ambitious,  to  the  high,  and  to  the  haughty;  but  why  this 
cruelty  to  the  humble,  to  the  meek,  to  the  undiscerning,  to  the 
thoughtless?  Nor  age,  nor  business,  nor  distress  can  erase  the 
dear  image  from  my  imagination.  In  the  same  week  I  saw  her 
dressed  for  a  ball,  and  in  a  shroud.  How  ill  did  the  habit  of 
Death  become  the  pretty  trifler!  I  still  behold  the  smiling 
earth  — 

A  large  train  of  disasters  were  coming  on  to  my  memory, 
when  my  servant  knocked  at  my  closet  door,  and  interrupted 
me  with  a  letter,  attended  with  a  hamper  of  wine,  of  the  same 
sort  with  that  which  is  to  be  put  to  sale  on  Thursday  next  at 
Garraway's  Coffee-house.1  Upon  the  receipt  of  it,  I  sent  for 
three  of  my  friends.  We  are  so  intimate  that  we  can  be  com- 
pany in  whatever  state  of  mind  we  meet,  and  can  entertain 
each  other  without  expecting  always  to  rejoice.  The  wine  we 
found  to  be  generous  and  warming,  but  with  such  a  heat  as 
moved  us  rather  to  be  cheerful  than  frolicsome.  It  revived 
the  spirits  without  firing  the  blood.  We  commended  it  till  two 
of  the  clock  this  morning,  and,  having  to-day  met  a  little  before 
dinner,  we  found  that,  though  we  drank  two  bottles  a  man,  we 
had  much  more  reason  to  recollect  than  forget  what  had  passed 
the  night  before. 

No.  217.  TUESDAY,  AUGUST  29,  1710 

Atque  deos  atque  astro,  vocal  cruddia  mater. —  VIRG.  Eclog.  v,  23. 

FROM  MY  OWN  APARTMENT. 

As  I  was  passing  by  a  neighbor's  house  this  morning,  I  over- 
heard the  wife  of  the  family  speak  things  to  her  husband  which 
gave  me  much  disturbance,  and  put  me  in  mind  of  a  character 
which  I  wonder  I  have  so  long  omitted,  and  that  is  an  out- 
rageous species  of  the  fair  sex  which^  is,  distinguished  by  the 
term  Scolds.  The  generality  of  women  are  by  nature  loqua- 

1  One  regrets  to  note  that  this  is  an  allusion  to  an  advertisement,  which  appeared  in  the 
same  number  of  the  Taller,  of  the  sale  of  "forty-six  hogsheads  and  one  half  of  extraordi- 
nary French  claret." 


136  RICHARD   STEELE 

cious;  therefore  mere  volubility  of  speech  is  not  to  be  imputed 
to  them,  but  should  be  considered  with  pleasure  when  it  is  used 
to  express  such  passions  as  tend  to  sweeten  or  adorn  conversa- 
tion. But  when,  through  rage,  females  are  vehement  in  their 
eloquence,  nothing  in  the  world  has  so  ill  an  effect  upon  the 
features;  for  by  the  force  of  it  I  have  seen  the  most  amiable 
become  the  most  deformed,  and  she  that  appeared  one  of  the 
Graces  immediately  turned  into  one  of  the  Furies.  I  humbly 
conceive  the  great  cause  of  this  evil  may  proceed  from  a  false 
notion  the  ladies  have  of  what  we  call  a  modest  woman.  They 
have  too  narrow  a  conception  of  this  lovely  character,  and 
believe  they  have  not  at  all  forfeited  their  pretensions  to  it, 
provided  they  have  no  imputations  on  their  chastity.  But 
alas!  the  young  fellows  know  they  pick  out  better  women  in 
the  side-boxes  than  many  of  those  who  pass  upon  the  world 
and  themselves  for  modest. 

Modesty  never  rages,  never  murmurs,  never  pouts;  when  it  is 
ill-treated,  it  pines,  it  beseeches,  it  languishes.  The  neighbor 
I  mention  is  one  of  your  common  modest  women ;  that  is  to  say, 
those  as  are  ordinarily  reckoned  such.  Her  husband  knows 
every  pain  in  life  with  her  but  jealousy.  Now  because  she  is 
clear  in  this  particular,  the  man  can't  say  his  soul  is  his  own, 
but  she  cries,  "No  modest  woman  is  respected  nowadays." 
What  adds  to  the  comedy  in  this  case  is  that  it  is  very  ordinary 
with  this  sort  of  women  to  talk  in  the  language  of  distress. 
They  will  complain  of  the  forlorn  wretchedness  of  their  condi- 
tion, and  then  the  poor  helpless  creatures  shall  throw  the  next 
thing  they  can  lay  their  hands  on  at  the  person  who  offends 
them.  Our  neighbor  was  only  saying  to  his  wife  she  went  a 
little  too  fine,  when  she  immediately  pulled  his  periwig  off, 
and,  stamping  it  under  her  feet,  wrung  her  hands  and  said, 
"Never  modest  woman  was  so  used."  These  ladies  of  irresisti- 
ble modesty  are  those  who  make  virtue  unamiable;  not  that 
they  can  be  said  to  be  virtuous,  but  as  they  live  without  scan- 
dal; and,  being  under  the  common  denomination  of  being  such, 
men  fear  to  meet  their  faults  in  those  who  are  as  agreeable  as 
they  are  innocent. 

I  take  the  bully  among  men,  and  the  scold  among  women, 
to  draw  the  foundation  of  their  actions  from  the  same  defect 
in  the  mind.  A  bully  thinks  honor  consists  wholly  in  being 


THE  TATLER  I37 

brave,  and  therefore  has  regard  to  no  one  rule  of  life,  if  he 
preserves  himself  from  the  accusation  of  cowardice.  The  fro- 
ward  woman  knows  chastity  to  be  the  first  merit  in  a  woman, 
and  therefore,  since  no  one  can  call  her  one  ugly  name,  she 
calls  all  mankind  all  the  rest. 

These  ladies,  where  their  companions  are  so  imprudent  as  to 
take  their  speeches  for  any  other  than  exercises  of  their  own 
lungs,  and  their  husbands'  patience,  gain  by  the  force  of  being 
resisted,  and  flame  with  open  fury,  which  is  no  way  to  be  op- 
posed but  by  being  neglected ;  though  at  the  same  time  human 
frailty  makes  it  very  hard  to  relish  the  philosophy  of  contemn- 
ing even  frivolous  reproach.  There  is  a  very  pretty  instance 
of  this  infirmity  in  the  man  of  the  best  sense  that  ever  was,  — 
no  less  a  person  than  Adam  himself.  According  to  Milton's 
description  of  the  first  couple,  as  soon  as  they  had  fallen,  and 
the  turbulent  passions  of  anger,  hatred,  and  jealousy  first 
entered  their  breasts,  Adam  grew  moody,  and  talked  to  his 
wife  as  you  may  find  it  in  the  359th  page  and  ninth  book  of 
Paradise  Lost,  in  the  octavo  edition;  which,  out  of  heroics,  and 
put  into  domestic  style,  would  run  thus:  — 

"Madam,  if  my  advice  had  been  of  any  authority  with  you 
when  that  strange  desire  of  gadding  possessed  you  this  morn- 
ing, we  had  still  been  happy.  But  your  cursed  vanity,  and 
opinion  of  your  own  conduct,  which  is  certainly  very  wavering 
when  it  seeks  occasions  of  being  proved,  has  ruined  both  your- 
self and  me  who  trusted  you." 

Eve  had  no  fan  in  her  hand  to  ruffle,  or  tucker  to  pull  down; 
but  with  a  reproachful  air  she  answered:  "Sir,  do  you  impute 
that  to  my  desire  of  gadding,  which  might  have  happened  to 
yourself  with  all  your  wisdom  and  gravity?  The  serpent  spoke 
so  excellently,  and  with  so  good  a  grace,  that  —  Besides,  what 
harm  had  I  ever  done  him,  that  he  should  design  me  any?  Was 
I  to  have  been  always  at  your  side,  I  might  as  well  have  con- 
tinued there,  and  been  but  your  rib  still;  but  if  I  was  so  weak 
a  creature  as  you  thought  me,  why  did  you  not  interpose  your 
sage  authority  more  absolutely?  You  denied  me  going  as 
faintly  as  you  say  I  resisted  the  serpent.  Had  not  you  been 
too  easy,  neither  you  nor  I  had  now  transgressed." 

Adam  replied:  "Why,  Eve,  hast  thou  the  impudence  to  up- 
braid me  as  the  cause  of  thy  transgression,  for  my  indulgence 


i38  RICHARD   STEELE 

to  thee?  Thus  it  will  ever  be  with  him  who  trusts  too  much  to 
a  woman.  At  the  same  time  that  she  refuses  to  be  governed,  if 
she  suffers  by  her  obstinacy  she  will  accuse  the  man  that  shall 
leave  her  to  herself." 

Thus  they  in  mutual  accusation  spent 

The  fruitless  hours,  but  neither  self-condemning; 

And  of  their  vain  contest  appeared  no  end. 

This  to  the  modern  will  appear  but  a  very  faint  piece  of  con- 
jugal enmity ;  but  you  are  to  consider  that  they  were  but  just 
begun  to  be  angry,  and  they  wanted  new  words  for  express- 
ing their  new  passions.  The  passionate  and  familiar  terms 
with  which  the  same  case,  repeated  daily  for  so  many  thousand 
years,  has  furnished  the  present  generation,  were  not  then  in 
use;  but  the  foundation  of  debate  has  ever  been  the  same,  a 
contention  about  their  merit  and  wisdom.  Our  general  mother 
was  a  beauty,  and  hearing  that  there  was  another  now  in  the 
world,  could  not  forbear  (as  Adam  tells  her)  showing  herself, 
though  to  the  devil,  by  whom  the  same  vanity  made  her  liable 
to  be  betrayed. 

I  cannot,  with  all  the  help  of  science  and  astrology,  find  any 
other  remedy  for  this  evil  but  what  was  the  medicine  in  this 
first  quarrel;  which  was,  as  appeared  in  the  next  book,  that 
they  were  convinced  of  their  being  both  weak,  but  one  weaker 
than  the  other.  .  .  '. 

ADVERTISEMENT 

The  season  now  coming  on  in  which  the  town  will  begin  to 
fill,  Mr.  Bickerstaff  gives  notice  that,  from  the  ist  of  October 
next,  he  will  be  much  wittier  than  he  has  hitherto  been. 

No.  263.  THURSDAY,  DECEMBER  14,  1710 

Minima  conlentos  node  Britannos.  —  Juv.,  Sal.  ii,  161. 

FROM   MY   OWN   APARTMENT. 

An  old  friend  of  mine  being  lately  come  to  town,  I  went  to 
see  him  on  Tuesday  last  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
with  a  design  to  sit  with  him  an  hour  or  two  and  talk  over  old 
stories,  but  upon  inquiring  after  him,  his  servant  told  me  he 
was  just  gone  to  bed.  The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  I  was  up 
and  dressed,  and  had  dispatched  a  little  business,  I  came  again 


THE  TATLER 


139 


to  my  friend's  house  about  eleven  o'clock,  with  a  design  to 
renew  my  visit;  but  upon  asking  for  him,  his  servant  told  me 
he  was  just  sat  down  to  dinner.  In  short,  I  found  that  my  old- 
fashioned  friend  religiously  adhered  to  the  example  of  his  fore- 
fathers, and  observed  the  same  hours  that  had  been  kept  in 
the  family  ever  since  the  Conquest. 

It  is  very  plain  that  the  night  was  much  longer  formerly  in 
this  island  than  it  is  at  present.  By  the  night  I  mean  that  por- 
tion of  time  which  nature  has  thrown  into  darkness,  and  which 
the  wisdom  of  mankind  had  formerly  dedicated  to  rest  and 
silence.  This  used  to  begin  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and 
conclude  at  six  in  the  morning.  The  curfew,  or  eight  o'clock 
bell,  was  the  signal  throughout  the  nation  for  putting  out  their 
candles  and  going  to  bed. 

Our  grandmothers,  though  they  were  wont  to  sit  up  the  last 
in  the  family,  were  all  of  them  fast  asleep  at  the  same  hours  that 
their  daughters  are  busy  at  crimp  and  basset.  Modern  states- 
men are  concerting  schemes,  and  engaged  in  the  depth  of  poli- 
tics, at  the  time  when  their  forefathers  were  laid  down  quietly 
to  rest,  and  had  nothing  in  their  heads  but  dreams.  As  we 
have  thus  thrown  business  and  pleasure  into  the  hours  of  rest, 
and  by  that  means  made  the  natural  night  but  half  as  long  as 
it  should  be,  we  are  forced  to  piece  it  out  with  a  great  part  of  the 
morning;  so  that  near  two- thirds  of  the  nation  lie  fast  asleep 
for  several  hours  in  broad  daylight.  This  irregularity  is  grown 
so  very  fashionable  at  present,  that  there  is  scarce  a  lady  of 
quality  in  Great  Britain  that  ever  saw  the  sun  rise.  And  if 
the  humor  increases  in  proportion  to  what  it  has  done  of  late 
years,  it  is  not  impossible  but  our  children  may  hear  the  bell- 
man going  about  the  streets  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
the  watch  making  their  rounds  till  eleven. 

This  unaccountable  disposition  in  mankind  to  continue 
awake  in  the  night,  and  sleep  in  sunshine,  has  made  me  inquire 
whether  the  same  change  of  inclination  has  happened  to  any 
other  animals.  For  this  reason  I  desired  a  friend  of  mine  in  the 
country  to  let  me  know  whether  the  lark  rises  as  early  as  he 
did  formerly,  and  whether  the  cock  begins  to  crow  at  his  usual 
hour.  My  friend  has  answered  me  that  his  poultry  are  as  regu- 
lar as  ever,  and  that  all  the  birds  and  the  beasts  of  his  neigh- 
borhood keep  the  same  hours  that  they  have  observed  in  the 


I4o  RICHARD   STEELE 

memory  of  man,  and  the  same  which,  in  all  probability,  they 
have  kept  for  these  five  thousand  years. 

If  you  would  see  the  innovations  that  have  been  made  among 
us  in  this  particular,  you  may  only  look  into  the  hours  of  col- 
leges, where  they  still  dine  at  eleven  and  sup  at  six,  which  were 
doubtless  the  hours  of  the  whole  nation  at  the  time  when  those 
places  were  founded.  But  at  present  the  courts  of  justice  are 
scarce  opened  in  Westminster  Hall  at  the  time  when  William 
Rufus  used  to  go  to  dinner  in  it.  All  business  is  driven  for- 
ward :  the  landmarks  of  our  fathers  (if  I  may  so  call  them)  are 
removed,  and  planted  further  up  into  the  day;  insomuch  that 
I  am  afraid  our  clergy  will  be  obliged,  if  they  expect  full  con- 
gregations, not  to  look  any  more  upon  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing as  a  canonical  hour.  In  my  own  memory  the  dinner  has 
crept  by  degrees  from  twelve  o'clock  to  three,  and  where  it  will 
fix  nobody  knows.  I  have  sometimes  thought  to  draw  up  a 
memorial  in  the  behalf  of  supper  against  dinner,  setting  forth 
that  the  said  dinner  has  made  several  encroachments  upon  the 
said  supper,  and  entered  very  far  upon  his  frontiers;  that  he 
has  banished  him  out  of  several  families,  and  in  all  has  driven 
him  from  his  headquarters,  and  forced  him  to  make  his  retreat 
into  the  hours  of  midnight;  and,  in  short,  that  he  is  now  in 
danger  of  being  entirely  confounded  and  lost  in  a  breakfast.  .  .  . 

For  my  own  part,  I  value  an  hour  in  the  morning  as  much  as 
common  libertines  do  an  hour  at  midnight.  When  I  find  my- 
self awakened  into  being,  and  perceive  my  life  renewed  within 
me,  and  at  the  same  time  see  the  whole  face  of  nature  recovered 
out  of  the  dark  uncomfortable  state  in  which  it  lay  for  several 
hours,  my  heart  overflows  with  such  secret  sentiments  of  joy 
and  gratitude  as  are  a  kind  of  implicit  praise  to  the  great 
Author  of  Nature.  The  mind  in  these  early  seasons  of  the  day 
is  so  refreshed  in  all  its  faculties,  and  borne  up  with  such  new 
supplies  of  animal  spirits,  that  she  finds  herself  in  a  state  of 
youth,  especially  when  she  is  entertained  with  the  breath  of 
flowers,  the  melody  of  birds,  the  dews  that  hang  upon  the 
plants,  and  all  those  other  sweets  of  nature  that  are  peculiar 
to  the  morning.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  to  have  this  relish 
of  being,  this  exquisite  taste  of  life,  who  does  not  come  into 
the  world  before  it  is  in  all  its  noise  and  hurry;  who  loses  the 
rising  of  the  sun,  the  still  hours  of  the  day,  and  immediately 


THE   SPECTATOR  I4I 

upon  his  first  getting  up  plunges  himself  into  the  ordinary 
cares  or  follies  of  the  world. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  Milton's  inimitable  descrip- 
tion of  Adam's  awakening  his  Eve  in  Paradise,  which  indeed 
would  have  been  a  place  as  little  delightful  as  a  barren  heath  or 
desert,  to  those  who  slept  in  it.  ... 


THE   SPECTATOR 

[This  periodical  was  founded  jointly  by  Steele  and  Addison,  and  was 
issued  six  times  a  week,  from  March,  1711,  to  December,  1712,  amounting 
to  555  numbers;  of  these  Steele  wrote  some  236.  In  1712  the  papers  were 
selling  at  some  10,000  per  week,  and  in  bound  volumes  they  had  no 
less  success.  The  supposed  author  of  this  periodical  was  the  gentleman 
called  "the  Spectator,"  whose  character  was  sketched  by  Addison  in 
the  first  number,  and  further  described  by  Steele  in  the  fourth,  here 
reproduced.] 

No.  4.  MONDAY,  MARCH  5,  1711 

Egregii  morialem  allique  silentii.  —  HOR. 

AN  author,  when  he  first  appears  in  the  world,  is  very  apt  to 
believe  it  has  nothing  to  think  of  but  his  performances.  With 
a  good  share  of  this  vanity  in  my  heart,  I  made  it  my  business 
these  three  days  to  listen  after  my  own  fame;  and  as  I  have 
sometimes  met  with  circumstances  which  did  not  displease 
me,  I  have  been  encountered  by  others  which  gave  me  much 
mortification.  It  is  incredible  to  think  how  empty  I  have  in 
this  time  observed  some  part  of  the  species  to  be,  —  what  mere 
blanks  they  are  when  they  first  come  abroad  in  the  morning,  — 
how  utterly  they  are  at  a  stand  until  they  are  set  a-going  by 
some  paragraph  in  a  newspaper.  Such  persons  are  very  accept- 
able to  a  young  author,  for  they  desire  no  more  in  anything 
but  to  be  new,  to  be  agreeable.  If  I  found  consolation  among 
such,  I  was  as  much  disquieted  by  the  incapacity  of  others. 
These  are  mortals  who  have  a  certain  curiosity  without  power 
of  reflection,  and  perused  my  papers  like  spectators  rather  than 
readers.  But  there  is  so  little  pleasure  in  inquiries  that  so 
nearly  concern  ourselves  (it  being  the  worst  way  in  the  world 
to  fame,  to  be  too  anxious  about  it),  that  upon  the  whole  I 
resolved  for  the  future  to  go  on  in  my  ordinary  way,  and,  with- 
Dut  too  much  fear  or  hope  about  the  business  of  reputation,  to 


I42  RICHARD   STEELE 

be  very  careful  of  the  design  of  my  actions,  but  very  negligent 
of  the  consequences  of  them. 

It  is  an  endless  and  frivolous  pursuit  to  act  by  any  other  rule 
than  the  care  of  satisfying  our  own  minds  in  what  we  do.  One 
would  think  a  silent  man,  who  concerned  himself  with  no  one 
breathing,  should  be  very  little  liable  to  misrepresentations; 
and  yet  I  remember  I  was  once  taken  up  for  a  Jesuit,  for  no 
other  reason  but  my  profound  taciturnity.  It  is  from  this  mis- 
fortune that,  to  be  out  of  harm's  way,  I  have  ever  since  affected 
crowds.  He  who  comes  into  assemblies  only  to  gratify  his 
curiosity,  and  not  to  make  a  figure,  enjoys  the  pleasures  of 
retirement  in  a  more  exquisite  degree  than  he  possibly  could 
in  his  closet;  the  lover,  the  ambitious,  and  the  miser,  are  fol- 
lowed thither  by  a  worse  crowd  than  any  they  can  withdraw 
from.  To  be  exempt  from  the  passions  with  which  others  are 
tormented,  is  the  only  pleasing  solitude.  I  can  very  justly  say 
with  the  sage,  "I  am  never  less  alone  than  when  alone." 

As  I  am  insignificant  to  the  company  in  public  places,  and 
as  it  is  visible  I  do  not  come  thither  as  most  do,  to  show  my- 
self, I  gratify  the  vanity  of  all  who  pretend  to  make  an  appear- 
ance, and  have  often  as  kind  looks  from  well-dressed  gentlemen 
and  ladies  as  a  poet  would  bestow  upon  one  of  his  audience. 
There  are  so  many  gratifications  attend  this  public  sort  of 
obscurity,  that  some  little  distastes  I  daily  receive  have  lost 
their  anguish;  and  I  did,  the  other  day,  without  the  least  dis- 
pleasure, overhear  one  say  of  me,  "That  strange  fellow";  and 
another  answer,  "I  have  known  the  fellow's  face  these  twelve 
years,  and  so  must  you;  but  I  believe  you  are  the  first  ever 
asked  who  he  was."  There  are,  I  must  confess,  many  to  whom 
my  person  is  as  well  known  as  that  of  their  nearest  relations, 
who  give  themselves  no  farther  trouble  about  calling  me  by  my 
name  or  quality,  but  speak  of  me  very  currently  by  the  appel- 
lation of  Mr.  What-d'ye-call-him. 

To  make  up  for  these  trivial  disadvantages,  I  have  the  high- 
est satisfaction  of  beholding  all  nature  with  an  unprejudiced 
eye,  and,  having  nothing  to  do  with  men's  passions  or  inter- 
ests, I  can,  with  the  greater  sagacity,  consider  their  talents, 
manners,  failings,  and  merits.  It  is  remarkable  that  those  who 
want  any  one  sense,  possess  the  others  with  greater  force  and 
vivacity.  Thus  my  want  of,  or  rather  resignation  of,  speech 


THE   SPECTATOR 


143 


gives  me  the  advantages  of  a  dumb  man.  I  have,  methinks, 
a  more  than  ordinary  penetration  in  seeing,  and  flatter  myself 
that  I  have  looked  into  the  highest  and  lowest  of  mankind, 
and  made  shrewd  guesses,  without  being  admitted  to  their 
conversation,  at  the  inmost  thoughts  and  reflections  of  all 
whom  I  behold.  It  is  from  hence  that  good  or  ill  fortune  has  no 
manner  of  force  towards  affecting  my  judgment.  I  see  men 
flourishing  in  courts,  and  languishing  in  jails,  without  being 
prejudiced  from  their  circumstances  to  their  favor  or  disad- 
vantage; but,  from  their  inward  manner  of  bearing  their  con- 
dition, often  pity  the  prosperous  and  admire  the  unhappy. 

Those  who  converse  with  the  dumb  know  from  the  turn  of 
their  eyes,  and  the  changes  of  their  countenance,  their  senti- 
ments of  the  objects  before  them.  I  have  indulged  my  silence 
to  such  an  extravagance,  that  the  few  who  are  intimate  with 
me  answer  my  smiles  with  concurrent  sentences,  and  argue  to 
the  very  point  I  shaked  my  head  at,  without  my  speaking. 
Will  Honeycomb  was  very  entertaining  the  other  night  at  a 
play,  to  a  gentleman  who  sat  on  his  right  hand,  while  I  was  at 
his  left.  The  gentleman  believed  Will  was  talking  to  himself, 
when,  upon  my  looking  with  great  approbation  at  a  young 
thing  in  a  box  before  us,  he  said,  "I  am  quite  of  another  opin- 
ion. She  has,  I  will  allow,  a  very  pleasing  aspect,  but  methinks 
that  simplicity  in  her  countenance  is  rather  childish  than  inno- 
cent." When  I  observed  her  a  second  time,  he  said,  "I  grant 
her  dress  is  very  becoming,  but  perhaps  the  merit  of  that 
choice  is  owing  to  her  mother;  for  though,"  continued  he,  "I 
allow  a  beauty  to  be  as  much  to  be  commended  for  the  ele- 
gance of  her  dress  as  a  wit  for  that  of  his  language,  yet  if  she 
has  stolen  the  color  of  her  ribands  from  another,  or  had  advice 
about  her  trimmings,  I  shall  not  allow  her  the  praise  of  dress 
any  more  than  I  would  call  a  plagiary  an  author." 

When  I  threw  my  eye  towards  the  next  woman  to  her,  Will 
spoke  what  I  looked,  according  to  his  romantic  imagination,  in 
the  following  manner:  "Behold,  you  who  dare,  that  charming 
virgin!  behold  the  beauty  of  her  person  chastised  by  the  inno- 
cence of  her  thoughts.  Chastity,  good-nature,  and  affability 
are  the  graces  that  play  in  her  countenance;  she  knows  she  is 
handsome,  but  she  knows  she  is  good.  Conscious  beauty 
adorned  with  conscious  virtue!  What  a  spirit  is  there  in  those 


144  RICHARD   STEELE 

ej'es!  What  a  bloom  in  that  person !  How  is  the  whole  woman 
expressed  in  her  appearance !  Her  air  has  the  beauty  of  motion, 
and  her  look  the  force  of  language." 

It  was  prudence  to  turn  away  my  eyes  from  this  object,  and 
therefore  I  turned  them  to  the  thoughtless  creatures  who  make 
up  the  lump  of  that  sex,  and  move  a  knowing  eye  no  more  than 
the  portraiture  of  insignificant  people  by  ordinary  painters, 
which  are  but  pictures  of  pictures. 

Thus  the  working  of  my  own  mind  is  the  general  entertain- 
ment of  my  life;  I  never  enter  into  the  commerce  of  discourse 
with  any  but  my  particular  friends,  and  not  in  public  even  with 
them.  Such  a  habit  has  perhaps  raised  in  me  uncommon  re- 
flections, but  this  effect  I  cannot  communicate  but  by  my 
writings.  As  my  pleasures  are  almost  wholly  confined  to  those 
of  the  sight,  I  take  it  for  a  peculiar  happiness  that  I  have  always 
had  an  easy  and  familiar  admittance  to  the  fair  sex.  If  I  never 
praised  or  flattered,  I  never  belied  or  contradicted  them.  As 
these  compose  half  the  world,  and  are,  by  the  just  complais- 
ance and  gallantry  of  our  nation,  the  more  powerful  part  of 
our  people,  I  shall  dedicate  a  considerable  share  of  these  my 
speculations  to  their  service,  and  shall  lead  the  young  through 
all  the  becoming  duties  of  virginity,  marriage,  and  widowhood. 
When  it  is  a  woman's  day,  in  my  works,  I  shall  endeavor  at  a 
style  and  air  suitable  to  their  understanding.  When  I  say  this, 
I  must  be  understood  to  mean  that  I  shall  not  lower  but  exalt 
the  subjects  I  treat  upon.  Discourse  for  their  entertainment 
is  not  to  be  debased,  but  refined.  A  man  may  appear  learned 
without  talking  sentences,  as  in  his  ordinary  gesture  he  dis- 
covers he  can  dance,  though  he  does  not  cut  capers.  In  a  word, 
I  shall  take  it  for  the  greatest  glory  of  my  work,  if  among 
reasonable  women  this  paper  may  furnish  tea-table  talk.  In 
order  to  it,  I  shall  treat  on  matters  which  relate  to  females,  as 
they  are  concerned  to  approach  or  fly  from  the  other  sex,  or  as 
they  are  tied  to  them  by  blood,  interest,  or  affection.  Upon 
this  occasion  I  think  it  but  reasonable  to  declare  that,  what- 
ever skill  I  may  have  in  speculation,  I  shall  never  betray  what 
the  eyes  of  lovers  say  to  each  other  in  my  presence.  At  the  same 
time  I  shall  not  think  myself  obliged  by  this  promise  to  conceal 
any  false  protestations  which  I  observe  made  by  glances  in 
public  assemblies,  but  endeavor  to  make  both  sexes  appear  in 


THE  SPECTATOR  145 

their  conduct  what  they  are  in  their  hearts.  By  this  means, 
love,  during  the  time  of  my  speculations,  shall  be  carried  on 
with  the  same  sincerity  as  any  other  affair  of  less  consideration. 
As  this  is  the  greatest  concern,  men  shall  be  from  henceforth 
liable  to  the  greatest  reproach  for  misbehavior  in  it.  False- 
hood in  love  shall  hereafter  bear  a  blacker  aspect  than  infidelity 
in  friendship  or  villainy  in  business.  For  this  great  and  good 
end,  all  breaches  against  that  noble  passion,  the  cement  of 
society,  shall  be  severely  examined.  But  this,  and  all  other 
matters  loosely  hinted  at  now,  and  in  my  former  papers,  shall 
have  their  proper  place  in  my  following  discourses.  The  present 
writing  is  only  to  admonish  the  world  that  they  shall  not  find 
me  an  idle  but  a  busy  Spectator. 

No.  49.  THURSDAY,  APRIL  26,  1711 

Hominem  pagina  noslra  sapit.  —  MART. 

It  is  very  natural  for  a  man  who  is  not  turned  for  mirthful 
meetings  of  men,  or  assemblies  of  the  fair  sex,  to  delight  in  that 
sort  of  conversation  which  we  find  in  coffee-houses.  Here  a 
man  of  my  temper  is  in  his  element;  for  if  he  cannot  talk,  he 
can  still  be  more  agreeable  to  his  company,  as  well  as  pleased 
in  himself,  in  being  only  a  hearer.  It  is  a  secret  known  to  but 
few,  yet  of  no  small  use  in  the  conduct  of  life,  that  when  you 
fall  into  a  man's  conversation,  the  first  thing  you  should  con- 
sider is,  whether  he  has  a  greater  inclination  to  hear  you  or 
that  you  should  hear  him.  The  latter  is  the  more  general  desire, 
and  I  know  very  able  flatterers  that  never  speak  a  word  in 
praise  of  the  persons  from  whom  they  obtain  daily  favors,  but 
still  practice  a  skillful  attention  to  whatever  is  uttered  by  those 
with  whom  they  converse.  We  are  very  curious  to  observe  the 
behavior  of  great  men  and  their  clients,  but  the  same  passions 
and  interests  move  men  in  lower  spheres;  and  I  (that  have 
nothing  else  to  do  but  make  observations)  see  in  every  parish, 
street,  lane,  and  alley  of  this  populous  city,  a  little  potentate 
that  has  his  court  and  his  flatterers,  who  lay  snares  for  his 
affection  and  favor  by  the  same  arts  that  are  practiced  upon 
men  in  higher  stations. 

In  the  place  I  most  usually  frequent,  men  differ  rather  in  the 
time  of  day  in  which  they  make  a  figure,  than  in  any  real  great- 


146  RICHARD  STEELE 

ness  above  one  another.  I,  who  am  at  the  coffee-house  at  six 
in  the  morning,  know  that  my  friend  Beaver,  the  haberdasher, 
has  a  levee  of  more  undissembled  friends  and  admirers  than 
most  of  the  courtiers  or  generals  of  Great  Britain.  Every  man 
about  him  has,  perhaps,  a  newspaper  in  his  hand,  but  none  can 
pretend  to  guess  what  step  will  be  taken  in  any  one  court  of 
Europe,  till  Mr.  Beaver  has  thrown  down  his  pipe,  and  de- 
clares what  measures  the  Allies  must  enter  into,  upon  this  new 
posture  of  affairs.  Our  coffee-house  is  near  one  of  the  Inns  of 
Court,  and  Beaver  has  the  audience  and  admiration  of  his 
neighbors  from  six  till  within  a  quarter  of  eight,  at  which  time 
he  is  interrupted  by  the  students  of  the  house,  some  of  whom 
are  ready  dressed  for  Westminster  at  eight  in  a  morning,  with 
faces  as  busy  as  if  they  were  retained  in  every  cause  there,  and 
others  come  in  their  night-gowns  to  saunter  away  their  time, 
as  if  they  never  designed  to  go  thither.  I  do  not  know  that  I 
meet  in  any  of  my  walks  objects  which  move  both  my  spleen 
and  laughter  so  effectually,  as  those  young  fellows  at  the 
Grecian,  Squire's,  Searle's,  and  all  other  coffee-houses  adja- 
cent to  the  law,  who  rise  early  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  pub- 
lish their  laziness.  One  would  think  these  young  virtuosos 
take  a  gay  cap  and  slippers,  with  a  scarf  and  parti-colored 
gown,  to  be  the  ensigns  of  dignity;  for  the  vain  things  approach 
each  other  with  an  air  which  shows  they  regard  one  another  for 
their  vestments.  I  have  observed  that  the  superiority  among 
these  proceeds  from  an  opinion  of  gallantry  and  fashion.  The 
gentleman  in  the  strawberry  sash,  who  presides  so  much  over 
the  rest,  has,  it  seems,  subscribed  to  every  opera  this  last 
winter,  and  is  supposed  to  receive  favors  from  one  of*  the 
actresses. 

When  the  day  grows  too  busy  for  these  gentlemen  to  enjoy 
any  longer  the  pleasures  of  their  dishabille  with  any  manner  of 
confidence,  they  give  place  to  men  who  have  business  or  good 
sense  in  their  faces,  and  come  to  the  coffee-house  either  to 
transact  affairs  or  enjoy  conversation.  The  persons  to  whose 
behavior  and  discourse  I  have  most  regard,  are  such  as  are  be- 
tween these  two  sorts  of  men;  such  as  have  not  spirits  too 
active  to  be  happy  and  well  pleased  in  a  private  condition, 
nor  complexions  too  warm  to  make  them  neglect  the  duties  and 
relations  of  life.  Of  these  sort  of  men  consist  the  worthier  part 


THE  SPECTATOR  147 

of  mankind;  of  these  are  all  good  fathers,  generous  brothers, 
sincere  friends,  and  faithful  subjects.  Their  entertainments 
are  derived  rather  from  reason  than  imagination,  which  is  the 
cause  that  there  is  no  impatience  or  instability  in  their  speech 
or  action.  You  see  in  their  countenances  they  are  at  home,  and 
in  quiet  possession  of  the  present  instant  as  it  passes,  without 
desiring  to  quicken  it  by  gratifying  any  passion,  or  prosecuting 
any  new  design.  These  are  the  men  formed  for  society,  and 
those  little  communities  which  we  express  by  the  word  neigh- 
borhood. 

The  coffee-house  is  the  place  of  rendezvous  to  all  that  live 
near  it,  who  are  thus  turned  to  relish  calm  and  ordinary  life. 
Eubulus  presides  over  the  middle  hours  of  the  day,  when  this 
assembly  of  men  meet  together.  He  enjoys  a  great  fortune 
handsomely,  without  launching  into  expense,  and  exerts  many 
noble  and  useful  qualities,  without  appearing  in  any  public 
employment.  His  wisdom  and  knowledge  are  serviceable  to  all 
that  think  fit  to  make  use  of  them,  and  he  does  the  office  of  a 
counsel,  a  judge,  an  executor,  and  a  friend,  to  all  his  acquaint- 
ance, not  only  without  the  profits  which  attend  such  offices, 
but  also  without  the  deference  and  homage  which  are  usually 
paid  to  them.  The  giving  of  thanks  is  displeasing  to  him.  The 
greatest  gratitude  you  can  show  him  is  to  let  him  see  that  you 
are  a  better  man  for  his  services,  and  that  you  are  as  ready  to 
oblige  others  as  he  is  to  oblige  you. 

In  the  private  exigencies  of  his  friends,  he  lends  at  legal  value 
considerable  sums  which  he  might  highly  increase  by  rolling 
in  the  public  stocks.  He  does  not  consider  in  whose  hands  his 
money  will  improve  most,  but  where  it  will  do  most  good. 

Eubulus  has  so  great  an  authority  in  his  little  diurnal  audi- 
ence, that  when  he  shakes  his  head  at  any  piece  of  public  news, 
they  all  of  them  appear  dejected,  and  on  the  contrary,  go  home 
to  their  dinners  with  a  good  stomach  and  cheerful  aspect,  when 
Eubulus  seems  to  intimate  that  things  go  well.  Nay,  their 
veneration  towards  him  is  so  great  that  when  they  are  in  other 
company  they  speak  and  act  after  him,  are  wise  in  his  sen- 
tences, and  are  no  sooner  sat  down  at  their  own  tables,  but 
they  hope  or  fear,  rejoice  or  despond,  as  they  saw  him  do  at 
the  coffee-house.  In  a  word,  every  man  is  Eubulus  as  soon  as 
his  back  is  turned. 


I48  RICHARD   STEELE    - 

Having  here  given  an  account  of  the  several  reigns  that  suc- 
ceed each  other  from  daybreak  till  dinner-time,  I  shall  men- 
tion the  monarchs  of  the  afternoon  on  another  occasion,  and 
shut  up  the  whole  series  of  them  with  the  history  of  Tom  the 
Tyrant,  who,  as  the  first  minister  of  the  coffee-house,  takes  the 
government  upon  him  between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve 
at  night,  and  gives  his  orders  in  the  most  arbitrary  manner  to 
the  servants  below  him,  as  to  the  disposition  of  liquors,  coal, 
and  cinders. 

No.  157.  THURSDAY,  AUGUST  30,  1711 

—  Genius,  natale  comes  qui  temperat  asirum, 
Natura  dens  humana  morlalis  in  unum 
Quodque  caput.  —  HOR. 

I  am  very  much  at  a  loss  to  express  by  any  word  that  occurs 
to  me  in  our  language,  that  which  is  understood  by  indoles  in 
Latin.  The  natural  disposition  to  any  particular  art,  science, 
profession,  or  trade,  is  very  much  to  be  consulted  in  the  care  of 
youth,  and  studied  by  men  for  their  own  conduct  when  they 
form  to  themselves  any  scheme  of  life.  It  is  wonderfully  hard, 
indeed,  for  a  man  to  judge  of  his  own  capacity  impartially. 
That  may  look  great  to  me  which  may  appear  little  to  another, 
and  I  may  be  carried  by  fondness  towards  myself  so  far  as  to 
attempt  things  too  high  for  my  talents  and  accomplishments. 
But  it  is  not,  methinks,  so  very  difficult  a  matter  to  make  a 
judgment  of  the  abilities  of  others,  especially  of  those  who  are 
in  their  infancy.  My  commonplace  book  directs  me  on  this 
occasion  to  mention  the  dawning  of  greatness  in  Alexander, 
who,  being  asked  in  his  youth  to  contend  for  a  prize  in  the 
Olympic  games,  answered  he  would  if  he  had  kings  to  run 
against  him.  Cassius,  who  was  one  of  the  conspirators  against 
Caesar,  gave  as  great  a  proof  of  his  temper,  when  in  his  child- 
hood he  struck  a  playfellow,  the  son  of  Sylla,  for  saying  his 
father  was  master  of  the  Roman  people.  Scipio  is  reported  to 
have  answered,  when  some  flatterers  at  supper  were  asking  him 
what  the  Romans  should  do  for  a  general  after  his  death, "Take 
Marius."  Marius  was  then  a  very  boy,  and  had  given  no  in- 
stances of  his  valor;  but  it  was  visible  to  Scipio,  from  the  man- 
ners of  the  youth,  that  he  had  a  soul  for  the  attempt  and  exe- 
cution of  great  undertakings. 


THE  SPECTATOR 


149 


I  must  confess  I  have  very  often  with  much  sorrow  bewailed 
the  misfortune  of  the  children  of  Great  Britain,  when  I  con- 
sider the  ignorance  and  undiscerning  of  the  generality  of 
schoolmasters.   The  boasted  liberty  we  talk  of  is  but  a  mean 
reward  for  the  long  servitude,  the  many  heart-aches  and  ter- 
rors, to  which  our  childhood  is  exposed  in  going  through  a 
grammar-school.   Many  of  these  stupid  tyrants  exercise  their 
cruelty  without  any  manner  of  distinction  of  the  capacities  of 
children,  or  the  intention  of  parents  in  their  behalf.  There  are 
many  excellent  tempers  which  are  worthy  to  be  nourished  and 
cultivated  with  all  possible  diligence  and  care,  that  were  never 
designed  to  be  acquainted  with  Aristotle,  Tully,  or  Virgil;  and 
there  are  as  many  who  have  great  capacities  for  understanding 
every  word  those  great  persons  have  writ,  and  yet  were  not 
born  to  have  any  relish  of  their  writings.  For  want  of  this  com- 
mon and  obvious  discerning  in  those  who  have  the  care  of 
youth,  we  have  so  many  hundred  unaccountable  creatures 
every  age  whipped  up  into  great  scholars,  that  are  forever  neai 
a  right  understanding,  and  will  never  arrive  at  it.   These  are 
the  scandal  of  letters,  and  these  are  generally  the  men  who  ar( 
to  teach  others.   The  sense  of  shame  and  honor  is  enough  to 
keep  the  world  itself  in  order,  without  corporal  punishment,  — • 
much  more  to  train  the  minds  of  uncorrupted  and  innocent 
children.   It  happens,  I  doubt  not,  more  than  once  in  a  year, 
that  a  lad  is  chastised  for  a  blockhead,  when  it  is  good  appre- 
hension that  makes  him  incapable  of  knowing  what  his  teacher 
means.  A  brisk  imagination  very  often  may  suggest  an  error 
which  a  lad  could  not  have  fallen  into  if  he  had  been  as  heavy  in 
conjecturing  as  his  master  in  explaining.  But  there  is  no  mercy 
even  towards  a  wrong  interpretation  of  his  meaning;  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  scholar's  body  are  to  rectify  the  mistakes  of  his  mind. 

I  am  confident  that  no  boy  who  will  not  be  allured  to  letters 
without  blows,  will  ever  be  brought  to  anything  with  them. 
A  great  or  good  mind  must  necessarily  be  the  worse  for  such 
indignities,  and  it  is  a  sad  change  to  lose  of  its  virtue  for  the 
improvement  of  its  knowledge.  No  one  who  has  gone  through 
what  they  call  a  great  school,  but  must  remember  to  have  seen 
children  of  excellent  and  ingenuous  natures  (as  has  afterward 
appeared  in  their  manhood)  —  I  say  no  man  has  passed  through 
this  way  of  education,  but  must  have  seen  an  ingenuous  crea- 


I5o  RICHARD  STEELE 

ture,  expiring  with  shame,  with  pale  looks,  beseeching  sorrow, 
and  silent  tears,  throw  up  its  honest  eyes,  and  kneel  on  its  ten- 
der knees  to  an  inexorable  blockhead,  to  be  forgiven  the  false 
quantity  of  a  word  in  making  a  Latin  verse.  The  child  is  pun- 
ished, and  the  next  day  he  commits  a  like  crime,  and  so  a  third, 
with  the  same  consequence.  I  would  fain  ask  any  reasonable 
man  whether  this  lad,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  native  innocence, 
full  of  shame  and  capable  of  any  impression  from  that  grace  of 
soul,  was  not  fitter  for  any  purpose  in  this  life,  than  after  that 
spark  of  virtue  is  extinguished  in  him,  though  he  is  able  to 
write  twenty  verses  in  an  evening? 

Seneca  says,  after  his  exalted  way  of  talking,  "As  the  im- 
mortal gods  never  learnt  any  virtue,  though  they  are  endued 
with  all  that  is  good,  so  there  are  some  men  who  have  so 
natural  a  propensity  to  what  they  should  follow,  that  they 
learn  it  almost  as  soon  as  they  hear  it."  Plants  and  vegetables 
are  cultivated  into  the  production  of  finer  fruits  than  they 
would  yield  without  that  care;  and  yet  we  cannot  entertain 
hopes  of  producing  a  tender  conscious  spirit  into  acts  of  virtue, 
without  the  same  methods  as  are  used  to  cut  timber,  or  give 
new  shape  to  a  piece  of  stone.  It  is  wholly  to  this  dreadful 
practice  that  we  may  attribute  a  certain  hardness  and  ferocity 
which  some  men,  though  liberally  educated,  carry  about  them 
in  all  their  behavior.  To  be  bred  like  a  gentleman,  and  pun- 
ished like  a  malefactor,  must,  as  we  see  it  does,  produce  that 
illiberal  sauciness  which  we  see  sometimes  in  men  of  letters. 

The  Spartan  boy  who  suffered  the  fox,  which  he  had  stolen 
and  hid  under  his  coat,  to  eat  into  his  bowels,  I  dare  say  had 
not  half  the  wit  or  petulance  which  we  learn  at  great  schools 
among  us;  but  the  glorious  sense  of  honor,  or  rather  fear  of 
shame,  which  he  demonstrated  in  that  action,  was  worth  all 
the  learning  in  the  world  without  it. 

It  is,  methinks,  a  very  melancholy  consideration  that  a  little 
negligence  can  spoil  us,  but  great  industry  is  necessary  to 
improve  us.  The  most  excellent  natures  are  soon  depreciated, 
but  evil  tempers  are  long  before  they  are  exalted  into  good 
habits.  To  help  this  by  punishments  is  the  same  thing  as  kill- 
ing a  man  to  cure  him  of  a  distemper;  when  he  comes  to  suffer 
punishment  in  that  one  circumstance,  he  is  brought  below  the 
existence  of  a  rational  creature,  and  is  in  the  state  of  a  brute 


THE   SPECTATOR  151 

that  moves  only  by  the  admonition  of  stripes.  But  since  this 
custom  of  educating  by  the  lash  is  suffered  by  the  gentry  of 
Great  Britain,  I  would  prevail  only  that  honest  heavy  lads 
may  be  dismissed  from  slavery  sooner  than  they  are  at  present, 
and  not  whipped  on  to  their  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  year, 
whether  they  expect  any  progress  from  them  or  not.  Let  the 
child's  capacity  be  forthwith  examined,  and  he  sent  to  some 
mechanic  way  of  life,  without  respect  to  his  birth,  if  nature 
designed  him  for  nothing  higher;  let  him  go  before  he  has  in- 
nocently suffered,  and  is  debased  into  a  dereliction  of  mind  for 
being  what  it  is  no  guilt  to  be  —  a  plain  man.  I  would  not  here 
be  supposed  to  have  said  that  our  learned  men  of  either  robe, 
who  have  been  whipped  at  school,  are  not  still  men  of  noble 
and  liberal  minds;  but  I  am  sure  they  would  have  been  much 
more  so  than  they  are,  had  they  never  suffered  that  infamy. 

"No.  324.  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  27,  1712 

O  curvcB  in  lerris  anima,  el  codeslium  inanes  /  —  PERS. 

MR.  SPECTATOR:  The  materials  you  have  collected  towards  a 
general  history  of  clubs,  make  so  bright  a  part  of  your  Specu- 
lations, that  I  think  it  is  but  a  justice  we  all  owe  the  learned 
world,  to  furnish  you  with  such  assistances  as  may  promote 
that  useful  work.  For  this  reason  I  could  not  forbear  com- 
municating to  you  some  imperfect  informations  of  a  set  of  men 
(if  you  will  allow  them  a  place  in  that  species  of  being)  who 
have  lately  erected  themselves  into  a  nocturnal  fraternity, 
under  the  title  of  the  Mohock  Club,1 —  a  name  borrowed,  it 
seems,  from  a  sort  of  cannibals  in  India,  who  subsist  upon 
plundering  and  devouring  all  the  nations  about  them.  The 
president  is  styled  Emperor  of  the  Mohocks,  and  his  arms  are 
a  Turkish  crescent,  which  his  imperial  majesty  bears  at  present 
in  a  very  extraordinary  manner  engraved  upon  his  forehead. 
Agreeable  to  their  name,  the  avowed  design  of  their  institu- 
tion is  mischief;  and  upon  this  foundation  all  their  rules  and 
orders  are  framed.  An  outrageous  ambition  of  doing  all  pos- 
sible hurt  to  their  fellow-creatures  is  the  great  cement  of  their 
assembly,  and  the  only  qualification  required  in  the  members. 
In  order  to  exert  this  principle  to  its  full  strength  and  perfec- 

1  An  actual  organization,  often  referred  to  by  writers  of  the  period. 


i52  RICHARD   STEELE 

tion,  they  take  care  to  drink  themselves  to  a  pitch,  —  that  is, 
beyond  the  possibility  of  attending  to  any  motions  of  reason 
or  humanity;  then  make  a  general  sally,  and  attack  all  that 
are  so  unfortunate  as  to  walk  the  streets  through  which  they 
patrol.  Some  are  knocked  down,  others  stabbed,  others  cut 
and  carbonadoed.  To  put  the  watch  to  a  total  rout,  and  mor- 
tify some  of  those  inoffensive  militia,  is  reckoned  a  coup  d' eclat. 
The  particular  talents  by  which  these  misanthropes  are  dis- 
tinguished from  one  another,  consist  in  the  various  kinds  of 
barbarities  which  they  execute  upon  their  prisoners.  Some  are 
celebrated  for  a  happy  dexterity  in  tipping  the  lion  upon  them, 
which  is  performed  by  squeezing  the  nose  flat  to  the  face,  and 
boring  out  the  eyes  with  their  fingers.  Others  are  called  the 
dancing-masters,  and  teach  their  scholars  to  cut  capers,  by 
running  swords  through  their  legs,  —  a  new  invention,  whether 
originally  French  I  cannot  tell.  ...  In  this  manner  they 
carry  on  a  war  against  mankind. 

I  must  own,  sir,  these  are  only  broken,  incoherent  memoirs 
of  this  wonderful  society ;  but  they  are  the  best  I  have  been  yet 
able  to  procure,  for,  being  but  of  late  established,  it  is  not  ripe 
for  a  just  history,  —  and,  to  be  serious,  the  chief  design  of  this 
trouble  is  to  hinder  it  from  ever  being  so.  You  have  been 
pleased,  out  of  a  concern  for  the  good  of  your  countrymen,  to 
act,  under  the  character  of  Spectator,  not  only  the  part  of  a 
looker-on,  but  an  overseer  of  their  actions;  and  whenever  such 
enormities  as  this  infest  the  town,  we  immediately  fly  to  you 
for  redress.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  some  thoughtless 
youngsters,  out  of  a  false  notion  of  bravery,  and  an  immoder- 
ate fondness  to  be  distinguished  for  fellows  of  fire,  are  insensi- 
bly hurried  into  this  senseless,  scandalous  project.  Such  will 
probably  stand  corrected  by  your  reproofs,  especially  if  you 
inform  them  that  it  is  not  courage  for  half  a  score  fellows,  mad 
with  wine  and  lust,  to  set  upon  two  or  three  soberer  than 
themselves;  and  that  the  manners  of  Indian  savages  are  not 
becoming  accomplishments  to  an  English  fine  gentleman.  Such 
of  them  as  have  been  bullies  and  scowerers  of  a  long  standing, 
and  are  grown  veterans  in  this  kind  of  service,  are,  I  fear,  too 
hardened  to  receive  any  impressions  from  your  admonitions. 
But  I  beg  you  would  recommend  to  their  perusal  your  ninth 
Speculation.  They  may  there  be  taught  to  take  warning  from 


THE  SPECTATOR  I53 

the  club  of  Duellists,  and  be  put  in  mind  that  the  common  fate 
of  those  men  of  honor  was  to  be  hanged.    I  am,  sir, 
Your  most  humble  servant, 

PHILANTHROPOS. 

The  following  letter  is  of  a  quite  contrary  nature;  but  I  add 
it  here,  that  the  reader  may  observe,  at  the  same  view,  how 
amiable  ignorance  may  be,  when  it  is  shown  in  its  simplicities, 
and  how  detestable  in  barbarities.  It  is  written  by  an  honest 
countryman  to  his  mistress,  and  came  to  the  hands  of  a  lady  of 
good  sense,  wrapped  about  a  thread-paper,  who  has  long  kept 
it  by  her  as  an  image  of  artless  love. 

To  her  I  very  much  respect,  MRS.  MARGARET  CLARK. 

Lovely,  and  O  that  I  could  write  loving  Mrs.  Margaret  Clark,  I  pray  you 
let  affection  excuse  presumption.  Having  been  so  happy  as  to  enjoy  the 
sight  of  your  sweet  countenance  and  comely  body,  sometimes  when  I  had 
occasion  to  buy  treacle  or  liquorish  powder  at  the  apothecary's  shop,  I  am 
so  enamored  with  you  that  I  can  no  more  keep  close  my  flaming  desire  to 
become  your  servant.  And  I  am  the  more  bold  now  to  write  to  your 
sweet  self,  because  I  am  now  my  own  man,  and  may  match  where  I  please; 
for  my  father  is  taken  away,  and  now  I  am  come  to  my  living,  which  is 
ten  yard  land  and  a  house;  and  there  is  never  a  yard  land  in  our  field  but  is 
as  well  worth  ten  pound  a  year  as  a  thief's  worth  a  halter,  and  all  my 
brothers  and  sisters  are  provided  for.  Besides,  I  have  good  household 
stuff,  though  I  say  it,  both  brass  and  pewter,  linens  and  woolens;  and 
though  my  home  be  thatched,  yet,  if  you  and  I  match,  it  shall  go  hard  but 
I  will  have  one  half  of  it  slated.  If  you  think  well  of  this  motion,  I  will 
wait  upon  you  as  soon  as  my  new  clothes  is  made,  and  hay-harvest  is  in. 
I  could,  though  I  say  it,  have  good  matches  in  our  town;  but  my  mother 
(God's  peace  be  with  her)  charged  me  upon  her  death-bed  to  marry  a  gen- 
tlewoman, one  who  had  been  well  trained  up  in  sewing  and  cookery.  I  do 
not  think  but  that,  if  you  and  I  can  agree  to  marry,  and  lay  our  means  to- 
gether,! shall  be  made  grand  juryman  ere  two  or  three  years  come  about, 
and  that  will  be  a  great  credit  to  us.  If  I  could  have  got  a  messenger  for 
sixpence,  I  would  have  sent  one  on  purpose,  and  some  trifle  or  other  for  a 
token  of  my  love,  but  I  hope  there  is  nothing  lost  for  that  neither.  So, 
hoping  you  will  take  this  letter  in  good  part,  and  answer  it  with  what  care 
and  speed  you  can,  I  rest  and  remain,  Yours,  if  my  own 

MR.  GABRIEL  BULLOCK, 
Swepston,  Leicestershire.  now  my  father  is  dead. 

When  the  coal  carts  come,  I  shall  send  oftener,  and  may  come  in  one  of 
them  myself.1 

1  In  the  original  paper  the  last  part  of  this  letter  (beginning  "matches  in  our  town") 
was  missing,  and  Steele  observed:  "The  rest  is  torn  off;  and  posterity  must  be  contented 
to  know  that  Mrs.  Margaret  Clark  was  very  pretty,  but  are  left  in  the  dark  as  to  the  name 
of  her  lover."  In  No.  328  he  published  the  conclusion,  from  a  copy  sent  him  by  a  corre- 
spondent, who  testified  to  its  authenticity. 


i54  RICHARD   STEELE 


THE  GUARDIAN 

[This  periodical  was  issued  by  Steele  from  March  to  October,  1713, 
appearing  six  times  a  week;  Steele  himself  wrote  some  82  of  the  papers. 
Unlike  the  Taller  and  the  Spectator,  the  Guardian  dealt  in  part  with  politi- 
cal subjects,  and  was  concerned  in  controversy  with  the  Tory  Examiner. 
Swift  attacked  it  in  his  famous  The  Importance  of  the  Guardian  Considered.} 

No.  34.    MONDAY,  APRIL  20, 1713 

Mores  multorum  vidit.    HOR. 

IT  is  a  most  vexatious  thing  to  an  old  man,  who  endeavors 
to  square  his  notions  by  reason,  and  to  talk  from  reflection  and 
experience,  to  fall  in  with  a  circle  of  young  ladies  at  their  after- 
noon tea-table.  This  happened  very  lately  to  be  my  fate.  The 
conversation,  for  the  first  half-hour,  was  so  very  rambling  that 
it  is  hard  to  say  what  was  talked  of,  or  who  spoke  least  to  the 
purpose.  The  various  motions  of  the  fan,  the  tossings  of  the 
head,  intermixed  with  all  the  pretty  kinds  of  laughter,  made 
up  the  greatest  part  of  the  discourse.  At  last  this  modish  way 
of  shining  and  being  witty  settled  into  something  like  conver- 
sation, and  the  talk  ran  upon  fine  gentlemen.  From  the  sev- 
eral characters  that  were  given,  and  the  exceptions  that  were 
made,  as  this  or  that  gentleman  happened  to  be  named,  I  found 
that  a  lady  is  not  difficult  to  be  pleased,  and  that  the  town 
swarms  with  fine  gentlemen.  A  nimble  pair  of  heels,  a  smooth 
complexion,  a  full-bottom  wig,  a  laced  shirt,  an  embroidered 
suit,  a  pair  of  fringed  gloves,  a  hat  and  feather,  —  any  one  or 
more  of  these  and  the  like  accomplishments  ennobles  a  man, 
and  raises  him  above  the  vulgar,  in  a  female  imagination.  On 
the  contrary,  a  modest,  serious  behavior,  a  plain  dress,  a 
thick  pair  of  shoes,  a  leathern  belt,  a  waistcoat  not  lined  with 
silk,  and  such  like  imperfections,  degrade  a  man,  and  are  so 
many  blots  in  his  escutcheon.  I  could  not  forbear  smiling  at 
one  of  the  prettiest  and  liveliest  of  this  gay  assembly,  who 
excepted  to  the  gentility  of  Sir  William  Hearty,  because  he 
wore  a  frieze  coat,  and  breakfasted  upon  toast  and  ale.  I  pre- 
tended to  admire  the  fineness  of  her  taste,  and  to  strike  in  with 
her  in  ridiculing  those  awkward  healthy  gentlemen  that  seem 


THE   GUARDIAN 


155 


to  make  nourishment  the  chief  end  of  eating.  I  gave  her  an 
account  of  an  honest  Yorkshire  gentleman,  who  (when  I  was  a 
traveler)  used  to  invite  his  acquaintance  at  Paris  to  break  their 
fast  with  him  upon  cold  roast  beef  and  mum.  There  was,  I 
remember,  a  little  French  marquis,  who  was  often  pleased  to 
rally  him  unmercifully  upon  beef  and  pudding,  of  which  our 
countryman  would  despatch  a  pound  or  two  with  great  alac- 
rity, while  this  antagonist  was  piddling  at  a  mushroom  or  the 
haunch  of  a  frog.  I  could  perceive  the  lady  was  pleased  with 
what  I  said,  and  we  parted  very  good  friends,  by  virtue  of  a 
maxim  I  always  observe,  Never  to  contradict  or  reason  with  a 
sprightly  female.  I  went  home,  however,  full  of  a  great  many 
serious  reflections  upon  what  had  passed,  and  though,  in  com- 
plaisance, I  disguised  my  sentiments,  to  keep  up  the  good 
humor  of  my  fair  companions,  and  to  avoid  being  looked  upon 
as  a  testy  old  fellow,  yet  out  of  the  good-will  I  bear  to  the  sex, 
and  to  prevent  for  the  future  their  being  imposed  upon  by 
counterfeits,  I  shall  give  them  the  distinguishing  marks  of  a 
true  fine  gentleman. 

When  a  good  artist  would  express  any  remarkable  character 
in  sculpture,  he  endeavors  to  work  up  his  figure  into  all  the 
perfections  his  imagination  can  form,  and  to  imitate  not  so 
much  what  is,  as  what  may  or  ought  to  be.  I  shall  follow  their 
example,  in  the  idea  I  am  going  to  trace  out  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man, by  assembling  together  such  qualifications  as  seem 
requisite  to  make  the  character  complete.  In  order  to  this  I 
shall  premise,  in  general,  that  by  a  fine  gentleman  I  mean  a  man 
completely  qualified  as  well  for  the  service  and  good  as  for  the 
ornament  and  delight  of  society.  When  I  consider  the  frame  of 
mind  peculiar  to  a  gentleman,  I  suppose  it  graced  with  all  the 
dignity  and  elevation  of  spirit  that  human  nature  is  capable  of. 
To  this  I  would  have  joined  a  clear  understanding,  a  reason 
free  from  prejudice,  a  steady  judgment,  and  an  extensive 
knowledge.  When  I  think  of  the  heart  of  a  gentleman,  I 
imagine  it  firm  and  intrepid,  void  of  all  inordinate  passions, 
and  full  of  tenderness,  compassion,  and  benevolence.  When  I 
view  the  fine  gentleman  with  regard  to  his  manners,  methinks 
I  see  him  modest  without  bashfulness,  frank  and  affable  with- 
out impertinence,  obliging  and  complaisant  without  servility, 


i56  RICHARD  STEELE 

cheerful  and  in  good  humor  without  noise.  These  amiable 
qualities  are  not  easily  obtained;  neither  are  there  many  men 
that  have  a  genius  to  excel  this  way.  A  finished  gentleman  is 
perhaps  the  most  uncommon  of  all  the  great  characters  in  life. 
Besides  the  natural  endowments  with  which  this  distinguished 
man  is  to  be  born,  he  must  run  through  a  long  series  of  educa- 
tion. 'Before  he  makes  his  appearance  and  shines  in  the 
world,  he  must  be  principled  in  religion,  instructed  in  all  the 
moral  virtues,  and  led  through  the  whole  course  of  the  polite 
arts  and  sciences.  He  should  be  no  stranger  to  courts  and  to 
camps;  he  must  travel  to  open  his  mind,  to  enlarge  his  views, 
to  learn  the  policies  and  interests  of  foreign  states,  as  well  as 
to  fashion  and  polish  himself,  and  to  get  clear  of  national 
prejudices,  of  which  every  country  has  its  share.  To  all  these 
more  essential  improvements  he  must  not  forget  to  add  the 
fashionable  ornaments  of  life,  such  as  are  the  languages  and 
the  bodily  exercises  most  in  vogue;  neither  would  I  have  him 
think  even  dress  itself  beneath  his  notice. 

It  is  no  very  uncommon  thing  in  the  world  to  meet  with  men 
of  probity;  there  are  likewise  a  great  many  men  of  honor  to  be 
found.  Men  of  courage,  men  of  sense,  and  men  of  letters  are 
frequent;  but  a  true  fine  gentleman  is  what  one  seldom  sees. 
He  is  properly  a  compound  of  the  various  good  qualities  that 
embellish  mankind.  As  the  great  poet  animates  all  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  learning  by  the  force  of  his  genius,  and  irradiates 
all  the  compass  of  his  knowledge  by  the  lustre  and  brightness 
of  his  imagination,  so  all  the  great  and  solid  perfections  of  life 
appear  in  the  finished  gentleman,  with  a  beautiful  gloss  and 
varnish.  Everything  he  says  or  does  is  accompanied  with  a 
manner,  or  rather  a  charm,  that  draws  the  admiration  and 
good-will  of  every  beholder. 

ADVERTISEMENT 

for  the  Benefit  of  my  Female  Readers 

N.  B.  The  gilt  chariot,  the  diamond  ring,  the  gold  snuff-box, 
and  brocade  sword-knot,  are  no  essential  parts  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man, but  may  be  used  by  him,  provided  he  casts  his  eye  upon 
them  but  once  a  day. 


MR.  STEELE'S  APOLOGY 


MR.  STEELE'S  APOLOGY  FOR  HIMSELF 


157 


AND   HIS   WRITINGS,    OCCASIONED   BY   HIS   EXPULSION 
FROM   THE   HOUSE   OF   COMMONS 

1714 

[Steele  was  expelled  from  the  House  of  Commons  on  March  18,  1714, 
having  been  accused  of  uttering  seditious  libels,  after  the  publication  of 
some  of  his  most  vigorous  political  pamphlets.  In  reply  to  the  majority 
party,  and  in  self-defense,  he  issued  the  Apology,  which  is  now  chiefly 
remembered  for  the  summary  of  his  literary  career  included  in  the  follow- 
ing extract.] 

...  I  FLATTER  myself  that  I  shall  convince  all  my  fellow- 
subjects  of  my  innocence  from  the  following  circumstances, 
allowed  to  be  of  weight  in  all  trials  of  this  nature:  from  the 
general  character  of  the  offender,  the  motive  to  his  offense, 
and  the  character  of  the  persons  who  appear  for  him,  opposed 
to  those  who  are  against  him.  There  are  some  points  to  be 
allowed  which  bear  hard  against  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  and 
we  must  grant  this  by  way  of  confessing  and  avoiding,  and 
give  it  up,  that  the  defendant  has  been  as  great  a  libertine  as  a 
confessor.  We  will  suppose,  then,  a  witness  giving  an  account 
of  him,  who,  if  he  spoke  true,  would  say  as  follows:  - 

"I  have  been  long  acquainted  with  Mr.  Steele,  who  is  ac- 
cused as  a  malicious  writer,  and  can  give  an  account  of  him 
(from  what  he  used  to  confess  to  us  his  private  friends),  what 
was  the  chief  motive  of  his  first  appearing  in  print.  Besides 
this,  I  have  read  everything  he  has  writ  or  published.  He  first 
became  an  author  when  an  ensign  of  the  Guards,  a  way  of  life 
exposed  to  much  irregularity,  and,  being  thoroughly  con- 
vinced of  many  things  of  which  he  often  repented  and  which 
he  more  often  repeated,  he  writ,  for  his  own  private  use,  a 
little  book  called  The  Christian  Hero,  with  a  design  principally 
to  fix  upon  his  own  mind  a  strong  impression  of  virtue  and 
religion,  in  opposition  to  a  stronger  propensity  toward  unwar- 
rantable pleasures.  This  secret  admonition  was  too  weak;  he 
therefore  printed  the  book  with  his  name,  in  hopes  that  a 
standing  testimony  against  himself,  and  the  eyes  of  the  world 
(that  is  to  say,  of  his  acquaintance)  upon  him  in  a  new  light, 
might  curb  his  desires,  and  make  him  ashamed  of  understand- 


158  RICHARD  STEELE 

ing  and  seeming  to  feel  what  was  virtuous,  and  living  so  quite 
contrary  a  life.  This  had  no  other  good  effect  but  that,  from 
being  thought  no  undelightful  companion,  he  was  soon  reck- 
oned a  disagreeable  fellow.  One  or  two  of  his  acquaintance 
thought  fit  to  misuse  him,  and  try  their  valor  upon  him,  and 
everybody  he  knew  measured  the  least  levity  in  his  words  and 
actions  with  the  character  of  a  Christian  hero.  Thus  he  found 
himself  slighted,  instead  of  being  encouraged,  for  his  declara- 
tions as  to  religion,  and  it  was  now  incumbent  upon  him  to 
enliven  his  character;  for  which  reason  he  writ  the  comedy 
called  The  Funeral,  in  which  (though  full  of  incidents  that  move 
laughter)  virtue  and  vice  appear  just  as  they  ought  to  do. 
Nothing  can  make  the  town  so  fond  of  a  man  as  a  successful 
play,  and  this,  with  some  particulars  enlarged  upon  to  his 
advantage  (for  princes  never  hear  good  or  evil  in  the  manner 
others  do) ,  obtained  him  the  notice  of  the  king,  and  his  name, 
to  be  provided  for,  was  in  the  last  table-book  ever  worn  by  the 
glorious  and  immortal  William  the  Third. 

"His  next  appearance  as  a  writer  was  in  the  quality  of  the 
lowest  minister  of  state,  to  wit,  in  the  office  of  Gazetteer, 
where  he  worked  faithfully  according  to  order,  without  ever 
erring  against  the  rule  observed  by  all  ministries,  to  keep  that 
paper  very  innocent  and  very  insipid. 

"It  is  believed  it  was  to  the  reproaches  he  heard  every 
Gazette-day  against  the  writer  of  it,  that  the  defendant  owes 
the  fortitude  of  being  remarkably  negligent  of  what  people  say, 
which  he  does  not  deserve,  except  in  so  great  cases  as  that  now 
before  us.  His  next  productions  were  still  plays,  then  the 
Taller,  then  the  Spectator,  then  the  Guardian,  then  the  Eng- 
lishman. And  now,  though  he  has  published  and  scribbled  so 
very  much,  he  may  defy  any  man  to  find  one  leaf  in  all  these 
writings  which  is  not,  in  point,  a  defense  against  this  impu- 
tation; to  find  a  leaf  which  does  not  mediately  or  immediately 
tend  to  the  honor  of  the  Queen  or  the  service  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry,  or  which  is  not  particularly  respectful  to  the  uni- 
versities. Farther  this  witness  sayeth  not."  .  .  . 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 
THE  SPECTATOR 

[For  the  dates,  etc.,  of  this  periodical,  see  above  under  Steele.  Addison 
wrote  274  of  the  papers,  signing  them  by  one  of  the  four  letters  in  the  name 
of  the  muse  Clio.  The  most  characteristic  element  in  his  contributions 
was  that  of  literary  criticism ;  his  purpose  in  this  connection  is  described 
in  the  important  passage  at  the  close  of  No.  409,  reprinted  below.] 

No.  10.  MONDAY,  MARCH  12,  1711 

Non  aliter  quam  qui  adverse  vix  flumine  lembum 

Remigiis  subigit :  si  brachia  forte  remisit, 

Alque  ilium  in  pr&ceps  prono  rapit  alveus  amni.  —  ViRG. 

IT  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear  this  great  city  in- 
quiring day  by  day  after  these  my  papers,  and  receiving  my 
morning  lectures  with  a  becoming  seriousness  and  attention. 
My  publisher  tells  me  that  there  are  already  three  thousand  of 
them  distributed  every  day.  So  that  if  I  allow  twenty  readers 
to  every  paper,  which  I  look  upon  as  a  modest  computation,  I 
may  reckon  about  threescore  thousand  disciples  in  London  and 
Westminster,  who  I  hope  will  take  care  to  distinguish  them- 
selves from  the  thoughtless  herd  of  their  ignorant  and  unatten- 
tive  brethren.  Since  I  have  raised  to  myself  so  great  an  audi- 
ence, I  shall  spare  no  pains  to  make  their  instruction  agreeable, 
and  their  diversion  useful.  For  which  reasons  I  shall  endeavor 
to  enliven  morality  with  wit,  and  to  temper  wit  with  morality, 
that  my  readers  may,  if  possible,  both  ways  find  their  account 
in  the  speculation  of  the  day.  And  to  the  end  that  their  virtue 
and  discretion  may  not  be  short,  transient,  intermitting  starts 
of  thought,  I  have  resolved  to  refresh  their  memories  from  day 
to  day,  till  I  have  recovered  them  out  of  that  desperate  state 
of  vice  and  folly  into  which  the  age  is  fallen.  The  mind  that 
lies  fallow  but  a  single  day,  sprouts  up  in  follies  that  are  only 
to  be  killed  by  a  constant  and  assiduous  culture.  It  was  said 
of  Socrates  that  he  brought  philosophy  down  from  heaven,  to 
inhabit  among  men;  and  I  shall  be  ambitious  to  have  it  said  of 
me  that  I  have  brought  philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries, 


160  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea- 
tables  and  in  coffee-houses. 

I  would  therefore  in  a  very  particular  manner  recommend 
these  my  speculations  to  all  well-regulated  families,  that  set 
apart  an  hour  in  every  morning  for  tea  and  bread  and  butter; 
and  would  earnestly  advise  them  for  their  good  to  order  this 
paper  to  be  punctually  served  up,  and  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
part  of  the  tea-equipage. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes  that  a  well  written  book,  com- 
pared with  its  rivals  and  antagonists,  is  like  Moses's  serpent, 
that  immediately  swallowed  up  and  devoured  those  of  the 
Egyptians.  I  shall  not  be  so  vain  as  to  think  that  where  the 
Spectator  appears,  the  other  public  prints  will  vanish ;  but  shall 
leave  it  to  my  reader's  consideration  whether,  is  it  not  much 
better  to  be  let  into  the  knowledge  of  one's  self,  than  to  hear 
what  passes  in  Muscovy  or  Poland;  and  to  amuse  ourselves  with 
such  writings  as  tend  to  the  wearing  out  of  ignorance,  passion, 
and  prejudice,  than  such  as  naturally  conduce  to  inflame 
hatreds  and  make  enmities  irreconcilable? 

In  the  next  place,  I  would  recommend  this  paper  to  the  daily 
perusal  of  those  gentlemen  whom  I  cannot  but  consider  as  my 
good  brothers  and  allies,  —  I  mean  the  fraternity  of  spectators, 
who  live  in  the  world  without  having  anything  to  do  in  it,  and, 
either  by  the  affluence  of  their  fortunes,  or  laziness  of  their  dis- 
positions, have  no  other  business  with  the  rest  of  mankind, 
but  to  look  upon  them.  Under  this  class  of  men  are  compre- 
hended all  contemplative  tradesmen,  titular  physicians,  fel- 
lows of  the  Royal  Society,  Templars  that  are  not  given  to  be 
contentious,  and  statesmen  that  are  out  of  business;  in  short, 
every  one  that  considers  the  world  as  a  theatre,  and  desires  to 
form  a  right  judgment  of  those  who  are  the  actors  on  it. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must  likewise  lay  a  claim 
to,  whom  I  have  lately  called  the  blanks  of  society,  as  being 
altogether  unfurnished  with  ideas,  till  the  business  and  con- 
versation of  the  day  has  supplied  them.  I  have  often  considered 
these  poor  souls  with  an  eye  of  great  commiseration,  when  I 
have  heard  them  asking  the  first  man  they  have  met  with, 
whether  there  was  any  news  stirring?  and  by  that  means 
gathering  together  materials  for  thinking.  These  needy  per- 
sons do  not  know  what  to  talk  of,  till  about  twelve  o'clock  in 


THE   SPECTATOR  161 

the  morning;  for  by  that  time  they  are  pretty  good  judges  of 
the  weather,  know  which  way  the  wind  sits,  and  whether  the 
Dutch  mail  be  come  in.  As  they  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the  first 
man  they  meet,  and  are  grave  or  impertinent  all  the  day  long, 
according  to  the  notions  which  they  have  imbibed  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  would  earnestly  entreat  them  not  to  stir  out  of  their 
chambers  till  they  have  read  this  paper,  and  to  promise  them 
that  I  will  daily  instil  into  them  such  sound  and  wholesome 
sentiments  as  shall  have  a  good  effect  on  their  conversation 
for  the  ensuing  twelve  hours. 

But  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper  will  be  more  useful, 
than  to  the  female  world.  I  have  often  thought  there  has  not 
been  sufficient  pains  taken  in  finding  out  proper  employments 
and  diversions  for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amusements  seem  con- 
trived for  them  rather  as  they  are  women  than  as  they  are 
reasonable  creatures,  and  are  more  adapted  to  the  sex  than  to 
the  species.  The  toilet  is  their  great  scene  of  business,  and  the 
right  adjusting  of  their  hair  the  principal  employment  of  their 
lives.  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of  ribbons  is  reckoned  a  very  good 
morning's  work;  and  if  they  make  an  excursion  to  a  mercer's 
or  a  toy-shop,  so  great  a  fatigue  makes  them  unfit  for  anything 
else  all  the  day  after.  Their  more  serious  occupations  are  sew- 
ing and  embroidery,  and  their  greatest  drudgery  the  prepara- 
tion of  jellies  and  sweetmeats.  This,  I  say,  is  the  state  of 
ordinary  women;  though  I  know  there  are  multitudes  of  those 
of  a  more  elevated  life  and  conversation,  that  move  in  an 
exalted  sphere  of  knowledge  and  virtue,  that  join  all  the 
beauties  of  the  mind  to  the  ornaments  of  dress,  and  inspire  a 
kind  of  awe  and  respect,  as  well  as  love,  into  their  male  be- 
holders. I  hope  to  increase  the  number  of  these  by  publishing 
this  daily  paper,  which  I  shall  always  endeavor  to  make  an 
innocent  if  not  an  improving  entertainment,  and  by  that  means 
at  least  divert  the  minds  of  my  female  readers  from  greater 
trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as  I  would  fain  give  some  finishing 
touches  to  those  which  are  already  the  most  beautiful  pieces  in 
human  nature,  I  shall  endeavor  to  point  out  all  those  imper- 
fections that  are  the  blemishes,  as  well  as  those  virtues  which 
are  the  embellishments,  of  the  sex.  In  the  meanwhile  I  hope 
these  my  gentle  readers,  who  have  so  much  time  on  their  hands, 
will  not  grudge  throwing  away  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  day 


162  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

on  this  paper,  since  they  may  do  it  without  any  hindrance  to 
business. 

I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well-wishers  are  in  great 
pain  for  me,  lest  I  should  not  be  able  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  a 
paper  which  I  oblige  myself  to  furnish  every  day;  but  to  make 
them  easy  in  this  particular,  I  will  promise  them  faithfully  to 
give  it  over  as  soon  as  I  grow  dull.  This  I  know  will  be  matter 
of  great  raillery  to  the  small  wits,  who  will  frequently  put  me 
in  mind  of  my  promise,  desire  me  to  keep  my  word,  assure  me 
that  it  is  high  time  to  give  over,  with  many  other  little  pleas- 
antries of  the  like  nature,  which  men  of  a  little  smart  genius 
cannot  forbear  throwing  out  against  their  best  friends,  when 
they  have  such  a  handle  given  them  of  being  witty.  But  let 
them  remember  that  I  do  hereby  enter  my  caveat  against  this 
piece  of  raillery. 

No.  16.  MONDAY,  MARCH  19,  1711 

Quid  verum  atque  decens  euro  el  rogo,  el  omnis  in  hoc  sum.  —  HOK. 

I  have  received  a  letter  desiring  me  to  be  very  satirical  upon 
the  little  muff  that  is  now  in  fashion.  Another  informs  me  of  a 
pair  of  silver  garters  buckled  below  the  knee,  that  have  been 
lately  seen  at  the  Rainbow  Coffee-house  in  Fleet  Street.  A 
third  sends  me  a  heavy  complaint  against  fringed  gloves.  To 
be  brief,  there  is  scarce  an  ornament  of  either  sex  which  one 
or  other  of  my  correspondents  has  not  inveighed  against  with 
some  bitterness,  and  recommended  to  my  observation.  I  must, 
therefore,  once  for  all  inform  my  readers  that  it  is  not  my  in- 
tention to  sink  the  dignity  of  this  my  paper  with  reflection 
upon  red  heels  or  top-knots,  but  rather  to  enter  into  the  pas- 
sions of  mankind,  and  to  correct  those  depraved  sentiments 
that  give  birth  to  all  those  little  extravagances  which  appear 
in  their  outward  dress  and  behavior.  Foppish  and  fantastic 
ornaments  are  only  indications  of  vice,  not  criminal  in  them- 
selves. Extinguish  vanity  in  the  mind,  and  you  naturally  re- 
trench the  little  superfluities  of  garniture  and  equipage.  The 
blossoms  will  fall  of  themselves  when  the  root  that  nourishes 
them  is  destroyed. 

I  shall  therefore,  as  I  have  said,  apply  my  remedies  to  the 
first  seeds  and  principles  of  an  affected  dress,  without  descend- 


THE  SPECTATOR  163 

ing  to  the  dress  itself;  though  at  the  same  time  I  must  own  that 
I  have  thoughts  of  creating  an  officer  under  me,  to  be  entitled 
the  Censor  of  Small  Wares,  and  of  allotting  him  one  day  in  the 
week  for  the  execution  of  such  his  office.  An  operator  of  this 
nature  might  act  under  me,  with  the  same  regard  as  a  surgeon 
to  a  physician;  the  one  might  be  employed  in  healing  those 
blotches  and  tumors  which  break  out  in  the  body,  while  the 
other  is  sweetening  the  blood  and  rectifying  the  constitution. 
To  speak  truly,  the  young  people  of  both  sexes  are  so  wonder- 
fully apt  to  shoot  out  into  long  swords  or  sweeping  trains,  bushy 
head-dresses  or  full-bottomed  periwigs,  with  several  other  en- 
cumbrances of  dress,  that  they  stand  in  need  of  being  pruned 
very  frequently,  lest  they  should  be  oppressed  with  ornaments, 
and  overrun  with  the  luxuriancy  of  their  habits.  I  am  much 
in  doubt  whether  I  should  give  the  preference  to  a  Quaker  that 
is  trimmed  close,  and  almost  cut  to  the  quick,  or  to  a  beau  that 
is  loaden  with  such  a  redundance  of  excrescences.  I  must 
therefore  desire  my  correspondents  to  let  me  know  how  they 
approve  my  project,  and  whether  they  think  the  erecting  of 
such  a  petty  censorship  may  not  turn  to  the  emolument  of  the 
public;  for  I  would  not  do  anything  of  this  nature  rashly  and 
without  advice. 

There  is  another  set  of  correspondents  to  whom  I  must 
address  myself  in  the  second  place:  I  mean  such  as  fill  their 
letters  with  private  scandal,  and  black  accounts  of  particular 
persons  and  families.  The  world  is  so  full  of  ill-nature  that 
I  have  lampoons  sent  me  by  people  who  cannot  spell,  and 
satires  composed  by  those  who  scarce  know  how  to  write.  By 
the  last  post  in  particular,  I  received  a  packet  of  scandal  which 
is  not  legible,  and  have  a  whole  bundle  of  letters  in  women's 
hands,  that  are  full  of  blots  and  calumnies;  insomuch  that, 
when  I  see  the  name  of  Celia,  Phillis,  Pastora,  or  the  like,  at 
the  bottom  of  a  scrawl,  I  conclude  of  course  that  it  brings  me 
some  account  of  a  fallen  virgin,  a  faithless  wife,  or  an  amorous 
widow.  I  must  therefore  inform  these  my  correspondents,  that 
it  is  not  my  design  to  be  a  publisher  of  intrigues,  or  to  bring 
little  infamous  stories  out  of  their  present  lurking-holes  into 
broad  daylight.  If  I  attack  the  vicious,  I  shall  only  set  upon 
them  in  a  body,  and  will  not  be  provoked  by  the  worst  usage  I 
can  receive  from  others  to  make  an  example  of  any  particular 


164  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

criminal.  In  short,  I  have  so  much  of  a  Drawcansir1  in  me, 
that  I  shall  pass  over  a  single  foe  to  charge  whole  armies.  It  is 
not  Lais  or  Silenus,  but  the  harlot  and  the  drunkard,  whom  I 
shall  endeavor  to  expose:  and  shall  consider  the  crime  as  it 
appears  in  the  species,  not  as  it  is  circumstanced  in  an  indi- 
vidual. I  think  it  was  Caligula  who  wished  the  whole  city  of 
Rome  had  but  one  neck,  that  he  might  behead  them  at  a  blow. 
I  shall  do,  out  of  humanity,  what  that  emperor  would  have 
done  in  the  cruelty  of  his  temper,  and  aim  every  stroke  at  a 
collective  body  of  offenders.  At  the  same  time  I  am  very  sen- 
sible that  nothing  spreads  a  paper  like  private  calumny  and 
defamation;  but  as  my  speculations  are  not  under  this  neces- 
sity, they  are  not  exposed  to  this  temptation. 

In  the  next  place  I  must  apply  myself  to  my  party  corre- 
spondents, who  are  continually  teasing  me  to  take  notice  of  one 
another's  proceedings.  How  often  am  I  asked  by  both  sides  if 
it  is  possible  for  me  to  be  an  unconcerned  spectator  of  the 
rogueries  that  are  committed  by  the  party  which  is  opposite 
to  him  that  writes  the  letter.  About  two  days  since  I  was  re- 
proached with  an  old  Grecian  law,  that  forbids  any  man  to 
stand  as  a  neuter,  or  a  looker-on,  in  the  divisions  of  his  country. 
However,  as  I  am  very  sensible  my  paper  would  lose  its  whole 
effect,  should  it  run  into  the  outrages  of  a  party,  I  shall  take 
care  to  keep  clear  of  everything  which  looks  that  way.  If  I  can 
any  way  assuage  private  inflammations,  or  allay  public  fer- 
ments, I  shall  apply  my  heart  to  it  with  my  utmost  endeavors; 
but  will  never  let  my  heart  reproach  me  with  having  done 
anything  towards  increasing  those  feuds  and  animosities  that 
extinguish  religion,  deface  government,  and  make  a  nation 
miserable. 

What  I  have  said  under  the  three  foregoing  heads  will,  I  am 
afraid,  very  much  retrench  the  number  of  my  correspondents. 
I  shall  therefore  acquaint  my  reader  that,  if  he  has  started 
any  hint  which  he  is  not  able  to  pursue,  if  he  has  met  with  any 
surprising  story  which  he  does  not  know  how  to  tell,  if  he  has 
discovered  any  epidemical  vice  which  has  escaped  my  observa- 
tion, or  has  heard  of  any  uncommon  virtue  which  he  would 
desire  to  publish,  —  in  short,  if  he  has  any  materials  that  can 
furnish  out  an  innocent  diversion,  I  shall  promise  him  my  best 

1  A  hero  in  The  Rehearsal,  burlesquing  Dryden's  Almanzor. 


THE  SPECTATOR  165 

assistance  in  the  working  of  them  up  for  a  public  entertain- 
ment. .  .  . 

No.  1 8.  WEDNESDAY,  MARCH  21,  1711 

—  Equilis  quoquejam  migravit  ab  aure  voluplas 
Ontnis  ad  incertos  oculos  et  gaudia  liana.  —  HOR. 

It  is  my  design  in  this  paper  to  deliver  down  to  posterity  a 
faithful  account  of  the  Italian  opera,  and  of  the  gradual  pro- 
gress which  it  has  made  upon  the  English  stage;  for  there  is  no 
question  but  our  great-grandchildren  will  be  very  curious  to 
know  the  reason  why  their  forefathers  used  to  sit  together  like 
an  audience  of  foreigners  in  their  own  country,  and  to  hear 
whole  plays  acted  before  them  in  a  tongue  which  they  did  not 
understand. 

Arisinoe1  was  the  first  opera  that  gave  us  a  taste  of  Italian 
music.  The  great  success  this  opera  met  with  produced  some 
attempts  of  forming  pieces  upon  Italian  plans,  which  should 
give  a  more  natural  and  reasonable  entertainment  than  what 
can  be  met  with  in  the  elaborate  trifles  of  that  nation.  This 
alarmed  the  poetasters  and  fiddlers  of  the  town,  who  were  used 
to  deal  in  a  more  ordinary  kind  of  ware,  and  therefore  laid 
down  an  established  rule,  which  is  received  as  such  to  this  day, 
"That  nothing  is  capable  of  being  well  set  to  music,  that  is  not 
nonsense." 

This  maxim  was  no  sooner  received,  but  we  immediately  fell 
to  translating  the  Italian  operas;  and  as  there  was  no  danger  of 
hurting  the  sense  of  those  extraordinary  pieces,  our  authors 
would  often  make  words  of  their  own  which  were  entirely 
foreign  to  the  meaning  of  the  passages  they  pretended  to  trans- 
late; their  chief  care  being  to  make  the  numbers  of  the  English 
verse  answer  to  those  of  the  Italian,  that  both  of  them  might 
go  to  the  same  tune.  Thus  the  famous  song  in  Camilla, 

Barbara,  si,  t'intendo,  etc. 

Barbarous  woman,  yes,  I  know  your  meaning, 

which  expresses  the  resentments  of  an  angry  lover,  was  trans- 
lated into  that  English  lamentation, 

Frail  are  a  lover's  hopes,  etc. 
>  By  Clayton  (1705). 


i66  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

And  it  was  pleasant  enough  to  see  the  most  refined  persons  of 
the  British  nation  dying  away  and  languishing  to  notes  that 
were  filled  with  a  spirit  of  rage  and  indignation.  It  happened 
also  very  frequently,'  where  the  sense  was  rightly  translated, 
the  necessary  transposition  of  words  which  were  drawn  out  of 
the  phrase  of  one  tongue  into  that  of  another,  made  the  music 
appear  very  absurd  in  one  tongue  that  was  very  natural  in  the 
other.  I  remember  an  Italian  verse  that  ran  thus,  word  for  word : 

And  turned  my  rage  into  pity; 
which  the  English  for  rhyme's  sake  translated, 
And  into  pity  turned  my  rage. 

By  this  means  the  soft  notes  that  were  adapted  to  pity  in  the 
Italian,  fell  upon  the  word  rage  in  the  English;  and  the  angry 
sounds  that  were  tuned  to  rage  in  the  original,  were  made  to 
express  pity  in  the  translation.  It  oftentimes  happened,  like- 
wise, that  the  finest  notes  in  the  air  fell  upon  the  most  insig- 
nificant words  in  the  sentence.  I  have  known  the  word  and 
pursued  through  the  whole  gamut,  have  been  entertained  with 
many  a  melodious  the,  and  have  heard  the  most  beautiful 
graces,  quavers,  and  divisions  bestowed  upon  then,  for,  and 
from,  to  the  eternal  honor  of  our  English  particles. 

The  next  step  to  our  refinement  was  the  introducing  of 
Italian  actors  into  our  opera,  who  sung  their  parts  in  their  own 
language,  at  the  same  time  that  our  countrymen  performed 
theirs  in  our  native  tongue.  The  king  or  hero  of  the  play  gen- 
erally spoke  in  Italian,  and  his  slaves  answered  him  in  English; 
the  lover  frequently  made  his  court,  and  gained  the  heart  of 
his  princess,  in  a  language  which  she  did  not  understand.  One 
would  have  thought  it  very  difficult  to  have  carried  on  dia- 
logues after  this  manner,  without  an  interpreter  between  the 
persons  that  conversed  together;  but  this  was  the  state  of  the 
English  stage  for  about  three  years. 

At  length  the  audience  grew  tired  of  understanding  half  the 
opera,  and  therefore,  to  ease  themselves  entirely  of  the  fatigue 
of  thinking,  have  so  ordered  it  at  present,  that  the  whole  opera 
is  performed  in  an  unknown  tongue.  We  no  longer  understand 
the  language  of  our  own  stage;  insomuch  that  I  have  often 
been  afraid,  when  I  have  seen  our  Italian  performers  chatter- 


THE   SPECTATOR  167 

ing  in  the  vehemence  of  action,  that  they  have  been  calling  us 
names,  and  abusing  us  among  themselves;  but  I  hope,  since 
we  do  put  such  an  entire  confidence  in  them,  they  will  not  talk 
against  us  before  our  faces,  though  they  may  do  it  with  the 
same  safety  as  if  it  were  behind  our  backs.  In  the  mean  time, 
I  cannot  forbear  thinking  how  naturally  an  historian  who  writes 
two  or  three  hundred  years  hence,  and  does  not  know  the  taste 
of  his  wise  forefathers,  will  make  the  following  reflection:  "In 
the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  Italian  tongue  was 
so  well  understood  in  England,  that  operas  were  acted  on  the 
public  stage  in  that  language." 

One  scarce  knows  how  to  be  serious  in  the  confutation  of  an 
absurdity  that  shows  itself  at  the  first  sight.  It  does  not  want 
any  great  measure  of  sense  to  see  the  ridicule  of  this  monstrous 
practice ;  but  what  makes  it  the  more  astonishing,  it  is  not  the 
taste  of  the  rabble,  but  of  persons  of  the  greatest  politeness, 
which  has  established  it. 

If  the  Italians  have  a  genius  for  music  above  the  English, 
the  English  have  a  genius  for  other  performances  of  a  much 
higher  nature,  and  capable  of  giving  the  mind  a  much  nobler 
entertainment.  Would  one  think  it  was  possible,  at  a  time 
when  an  author 1  lived  that  was  able  to  write  the  Phcedra  and 
Hippolitus,  for  a  people  to  be  so  stupidly  fond  of  the  Italian 
opera,  as  scarce  to  give  a  third  day's  hearing  to  that  admirable 
tragedy?  Music  is  certainly  a  very  agreeable  entertainment, 
but  if  it  would  take  the  entire  possession  of  our  ears,  if  it  would 
make  us  incapable  of  hearing  sense,  if  it  would  exclude  arts 
that  have  a  much  greater  tendency  to  the  refinement  of  human 
nature,  I  must  confess  I  would  allow  it  no  better  quarter  than 
Plato  has  done,  who  banishes  it  out  of  his  commonwealth. 

At  present  our  notions  of  music  are  so  very  uncertain  that 
we  do  not  know  what  it  is  we  like;  only,  in  general,  we  are 
transported  with  anything  that  is  not  English;  so  it  be  of  a  for- 
eign growth,  let  it  be  Italian,  French,  or  High  Dutch,  it  is  the 
same  thing.  In  short,  our  English  music  is  quite  rooted  out,  and 
nothing  yet  planted  in  its  stead. 

When  a  royal  palace  is  burnt  to  the  ground,  every  man  is  at 
liberty  to  present  his  plan  for  a  new  one;  and  though  it  be  but 
indifferently  put  together,  it  may  furnish  several  hints  that 

1  Edmund  Smith. 


i68  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

may  be  of  use  to  a  good  architect.  I  shall  take  the  same  liberty, 
in  a  following  paper,  of  giving  my  opinion  upon  the  subject  of 
music;  which  I  shall  lay  down  only  in  a  problematical  manner, 
to  be  considered  by  those  who  are  masters  in  the  art. 

No.  26.  FRIDAY,  MARCH  30,  1711 

Pallida  mors  aquo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernas 

Regumque  turres,  O  beate  Sexli, 
Vila  summa  brevis  spent  nos  vetat  inchoare  longam: 

Jam  te  premel  nox,  fabulaque  manes, 
Et  domus  exilis  Plulonia.  —  HOR. 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  humor,  I  very  often  walk  by  myself 
in  Westminster  Abbey;  where  the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and 
the  use  to  which  it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  build- 
ing, and  the  condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill 
the  mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtfulness, 
that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed  a  whole  afternoon 
in  the  churchyard,  the  cloisters,  and  the  church,  amusing  my- 
self with  the  tombstones  and  inscriptions  that  I  met  with  in 
those  several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most  of  them  recorded 
nothing  else  of  the  buried  person,  but  that  he  was  born  upon 
one  day,  and  died  upon  another;  the  whole  history  of  his  life 
being  comprehended  in  those  two  circumstances  that  are  com- 
mon to  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but  look  upon  these  registers 
of  existence,  whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of  satire 
upon  the  departed  persons,  who  had  left  no  other  memorial  of 
them  but  that  they  were  born  and  that  they  died.  They  put 
me  in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned  in  the  battles  of  heroic 
poems,  who  have  sounding  names  given  them,  for  no  other 
reason  but  that  they  may  be  killed,  and  are  celebrated  for 
nothing  but  being  knocked  on  the  head. 


M^Sovrd  re  QtpfffXo^v  re.  —  HOM. 
Glaucumque,  Medontaque,  Thersilochumque.  —  VIRG. 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in  Holy  Writ  by  "the 
path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is  immediately  closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained  myself  with 
the  digging  of  a  grave,  and  saw,  in  every  shovelful  of  it  that 
was  thrown  up,  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull  intermixed  with 
a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering  earth  that  some  time  or  other  had 
a  place  in  the  composition  of  a  human  body.  Upon  this,  I 


THE   SPECTATOR  169 

began  to  consider  with  myself  what  innumerable  multitudes 
of  people  lay  confused  together  under  the  pavement  of  that 
ancient  cathedral;  how  men  and  women,  friends  and  enemies, 
priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries,  were  crumbled 
amongst  one  another,  and  blended  together  in  the  same  com- 
mon mass;  how  beauty,  strength,  and  youth,  with  old  age, 
weakness  and  deformity,  lay  undistinguished  in  the  same 
promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  magazine  of  mortality, 
as  it  were,  in  the  lump,  I  examined  it  more  particularly  by  the 
accounts  which  I  found  on  several  of  the  monuments  which  are 
raised  in  every  quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them 
were  covered  with  such  extravagant  epitaphs  that,  if  it  were 
possible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted  with  them,  he 
would  blush  at  the  praises  which  his  friends  have  bestowed 
upon  him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  modest  that  they 
deliver  the  character  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or  He- 
brew, and  by  that  means  are  not  understood  once  in  a  twelve- 
month. In  the  poetical  quarter,  I  found  there  were  poets  who 
had  no  monuments,  and  monuments  which  had  no  poets.  I 
observed  indeed  that  the  present  war  had  filled  the  church  with 
many  of  these  uninhabited  monuments,  which  had  been  erected 
to  the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  were  perhaps  buried 
in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with  several  modern 
epitaphs,  which  are  written  with  great  elegance  of  expression 
and  justness  of  thought,  and  therefore  do  honor  to  the  living  as 
well  as  to  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very  apt  to  conceive  an 
idea  of  the  ignorance  or  politeness  of  a  nation,  from  the  turn  of 
their  public  monuments  and  inscriptions,  they  should  be  sub- 
mitted to  the  perusal  of  men  of  learning  and  genius,  before  they 
are  put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel's  monument  has 
very  often  given  me  great  offense:  instead  of  the  brave  rough 
English  admiral,  which  was  the  distinguishing  character  of 
that  plain  gallant  man,  he  is  represented  on  his  tomb  by  the 
figure  of  a  beau,  dressed  in  a  long  periwig,  and  reposing  him- 
self upon  velvet  cushions  under  a  canopy  of  state.  The  inscrip- 
tion is  answerable  to  the  monument;  for  instead  of  celebrating 
the  many  remarkable  actions  he  had  performed  in  the  service 
of  his  country,  it  acquaints  us  only  with  the  manner  of  his 


i7o  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

death,  in  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  reap  any  honor. 
The  Dutch,  whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for  want  of  genius, 
show  an  infinitely  greater  taste  of  antiquity  and  politeness  in 
their  buildings  and  works  of  this  nature,  than  what  we  meet 
with  in  those  of  our  own  country.  The  monuments  of  their 
admirals,  which  have  been  erected  at  the  public  expense, 
represent  them  like  themselves,  and  are  adorned  with  rostral 
crowns  and  naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful  festoons  of  sea- 
weed, shells,  and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the  repository  of 
our  English  kings  for  the  contemplation  of  another  day,  when 
I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed  for  so  serious  an  amusement.  I 
know  that  entertainments  of  this  nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark 
and  dismal  thoughts  in  timorous  minds  and  gloomy  imagina- 
tions; but  for  my  own  part,  though  I  am  always  serious,  I  do 
not  know  what  it  is  to  be  melancholy,  and  can  therefore  take  a 
view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes  with  the  same 
pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and  delightful  ones.  By  this  means 
I  can  improve  myself  with  those  objects  which  others  consider 
with  terror.  When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every 
emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the 
beautiful,  every  inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet  with 
the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with 
compassion;  when  I  see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves, 
I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom  we  must 
quickly  follow;  when  I  see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed 
them,  when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the 
holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with  their  contests  and  dis- 
putes, I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little 
competitions,  factions,  and  debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read 
the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yesterday, 
and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that  great  day  when 
we  shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our  appearance 
together. 

No.  34.  MONDAY,  APRIL  9,  1711 

—  parcit 
Cognatis  maculis  similis  fera.  —  Juv. 

The  club  of  which  I  am  a  member  is  very  luckily  composed 
of  such  persons  as  are  engaged  in  different  ways  of  life,  and 


THE   SPECTATOR  171 

deputed,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  most  conspicuous  classes  of 
mankind.  By  this  means  I  am  furnished  with  the  greatest 
variety  of  hints  and  materials,  and  know  everything  that  passes 
in  the  different  quarters  and  divisions,  not  only  of  this  great 
city,  but  of  the  whole  kingdom.  My  readers,  too,  have  the 
satisfaction  to  find  that  there  is  no  rank  or  degree  among 
them  who  have  not  their  representative  in  this  club,  and  that 
there  is  always  somebody  present  who  will  take  care  of  their 
respective  interests,  that  nothing  may  be  written  or  pub- 
lished to  the  prejudice  or  infringement  of  their  just  rights 
and  privileges. 

I  last  night  sat  very  late  in  company  with  this  select  body 
of  friends,  who  entertained  me  with  several  remarks  which 
they  and  others  had  made  upon  these  my  speculations,  as  also 
with  the  various  success  which  they  had  met  with  among  their 
several  ranks  and  degrees  of  readers.  Will  Honeycomb  told 
me,  in  the  softest  manner  he  could,  that  there  were  some  ladies 
("but  for  your  comfort,"  says  Will,  "they  are  not  those  of  the 
most  wit")  that  were  offended  at  the  liberties  I  had  taken  with 
the  opera  and  the  puppet-show;  that  some  of  them  were  like- 
wise very  much  surprised  that  I  should  think  such  serious 
points  as  the  dress  and  equipage  of  persons  of  quality,  proper 
subjects  for  raillery. 

He  was  going  on,  when  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  took  him  up 
short,  and  told  him  that  the  papers  he  hinted  at  had  done  great 
good  in  the  city,  and  that  all  their  wives  and  daughters  were 
the  better  for  them;  and  farther  added  that  the  whole  City 
thought  themselves  very  much  obliged  to  me  for  declaring  my 
generous  intentions  to  scourge  vice  and  folly  as  they  appear 
in  a  multitude,  without  condescending  to  be  a  publisher  of 
particular  intrigues.  "In  short,"  says  Sir  Andrew,  "if  you 
avoid  that  foolish  beaten  road  of  falling  upon  aldermen  and 
citizens,  and  employ  your  pen  upon  the  vanity  and  luxury  of 
courts,  your  paper  must  needs  be  of  general  use." 

Upon  this,  my  friend  the  Templar  told  Sir  Andrew  that  he 
wondered  to  hear  a  man  of  his  sense  talk  after  that  manner; 
that  the  City  had  always  been  the  province  for  satire;  and  that 
the  wits  of  King  Charles's  time  jested  upon  nothing  else  during 
his  whole  reign.  He  then  showed,  by  the  examples  of  Horace, 
Juvenal,  Boileau,  and  the  best  writers  of  every  age,  that  the 


172  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

follies  of  the  stage  and  court  had  never  been  accounted  too 
sacred  for  ridicule,  how  great  soever  the  persons  might  be  that 
patronized  them.  "But  after  all,"  says  he,  "I  think  your  rail- 
lery has  made  too  great  an  excursion,  in  attacking  several  per- 
sons of  the  Inns  of  Court,  and  I  do  not  believe  you  can  show  me 
any  precedent  for  your  behavior  in  that  particular." 

My  good  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  who  had  said  nothing 
all  this  while,  began  his  speech  with  a  Pish!  and  told  us  that  he 
wondered  to  see  so  many  men  of  sense  so  very  serious  upon 
fooleries.  "Let  our  good  friend,"  says  he,  "attack  every  one 
that  deserves  it.  I  would  only  advise  you,  Mr.  Spectator," 
applying  himself  to  me,  "to  take  care  how  you  meddle  with 
country  squires.  They  are  the  ornaments  of  the  English  na- 
tion, —  men  of  good  heads  and  sound  bodies;  and,  let  me  tell 
you,  some  of  them  take  it  ill  of  you  that  you  mention  fox- 
hunters  with  so  little  respect." 

Captain  Sentry  spoke  very  sparingly  on  this  occasion.  What 
he  said  was  only  to  commend  my  prudence  in  not  touching 
upon  the  army,  and  advised  me  to  continue  to  act  discreetly 
in  that  point. 

By  this  time  I  found  every  subject  of  my  speculations  was 
taken  away  from  me  by  one  or  other  of  the  club,  and  began 
to  think  myself  in  the  condition  of  the  good  man  that  had  one 
wife  who  took  a  dislike  to  his  gray  hair,  and  another  to  his 
black,  till  by  their  picking  out  what  each  of  them  had  an  aver- 
sion to,  they  left  his  head  altogether  bald  and  naked. 

While  I  was  thus  musing  with  myself,  my  worthy  friend  the 
clergyman,  who  —  very  luckily  for  me  —  was  at  the  club  that 
night,  undertook  my  cause.  He  told  us  that  he  wondered  any 
order  of  persons  should  think  themselves  too  considerable  to 
be  advised.  That  it  was  not  quality,  but  innocence,  which 
exempted  men  from  reproof.  That  vice  and  folly  ought  to  be 
attacked  wherever  they  could  be  met  with,  and  especially 
when  they  were  placed  in  high  and  conspicuous  stations  of 
life.  He  farther  added  that  my  paper  would  only  serve  to  ag- 
gravate the  pains  of  poverty,  if  it  chiefly  exposed  those  who 
are  already  depressed,  and  in  some  measure  turned  into  ridi- 
cule, by  the  meanness  of  their  conditions  and  circumstances. 
He  afterwards  proceeded  to  take  notice  of  the  great  use  this 
paper  might  be  of  to  the  public,  by  reprehending  those  vices 


THE   SPECTATOR  173 

which  are  too  trivial  for  the  chastisement  of  the  law,  and  too 
fantastical  for  the  cognizance  of  the  pulpit.  He  then  advised 
me  to  prosecute  my  undertaking  with  cheerfulness,  and  as- 
sured me  that,  whoever  might  be  displeased  with  me,  I  should 
be  approved  by  all  those  whose  praises  do  honor  to  the  persons 
on  whom  they  are  bestowed. 

The  whole  club  pay  a  particular  deference  to  the  discourse 
of  this  gentleman,  and  are  drawn  into  what  he  says  as  much 
by  the  candid,  ingenuous  manner  with  which  he  delivers  him- 
self, as  by  the  strength  of  argument  and  force  of  reason  which 
he  makes  use  of.  Will  Honeycomb  immediately  agreed  that 
what  he  had  said  was  right,  and  that,  for  his  part,  he  would  not 
insist  upon  the  quarter  which  he  had  demanded  for  the  ladies. 
Sir  Andrew  gave  up  the  City  with  the  same  frankness.  The 
Templar  would  not  stand  out,  and  was  followed  by  Sir  Roger 
and  the  Captain,  who  all  agreed  that  I  should  be  at  liberty  to 
carry  the  war  into  what  quarter  I  pleased,  provided  I  con- 
tinued to  combat  with  criminals  in  a  body,  and  to  assault  the 
vice  without  hurting  the  person. 

This  debate,  which  was  held  for  the  good  of  mankind,  put 
me  in  mind  of  that  which  the  Roman  triumvirate  were  for- 
merely  engaged  in  for  their  destruction.  Every  man  at  first 
stood  hard  for  his  friend,  till  they  found  that  by  this  means 
they  should  spoil  their  proscription;  and  at  length,  making  a 
sacrifice  of  all  their  acquaintance  and  relations,  furnished  out  a 
very  decent  execution. 

Having  thus  taken  my  resolutions  to  march  on  boldly  in  the 
cause  of  virtue  and  good  sense,  and  to  annoy  their  adversaries 
in  whatever  degree  or  rank  of  men  they  may  be  found,  I  shall 
be  deaf  for  the  future  to  all  the  remonstrances  that  shall  be 
made  to  me  on  this  account.  If  Punch  grows  extravagant,  I 
shall  reprimand  him  very  freely.  If  the  stage  becomes  a  nur- 
sery of  folly  and  impertinence,  I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  anim- 
advert upon  it.  In  short,  if  I  meet  with  anything  in  City,  court, 
or  country,  that  shocks  modesty  or  good  manners,  I  shall  use 
my  utmost  endeavors  to  make  an  example  of  it.  I  must,  how- 
ever, entreat  every  particular  person  who  does  me  the  honor  to 
be  a  reader  of  this  paper,  never  to  think  himself,  or  any  one  of 
his  friends  or  enemies,  aimed  at  in  what  is  said;  for  I  promise 
him  never  to  draw  a  faulty  character  which  does  not  fit  at  least 


174  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

a  thousand  people,  or  to  publish  a  single  paper  that  is  not 
written  in  the  spirit  of  benevolence  and  with  a  love  of  mankind. 

No.  40.  MONDAY,  APRIL  16,  1711 

Ac  ne  forte  pules  me,  quafacere  ipse  recusem, 

Cum  rede  tractant  alii,  laudare  maligne; 

Ille  per  extentum  funem  mihi  posse  videtur 

Ire  poela,  meum  qui  pectus  inaniler  angit, 

Irrilat,  mulcet,  falsis  terroribus  implet, 

Ut  magus;  et  mode  me  Thebis,  modo  ponit  Athenis.  —  HOK. 

The  English  writers  of  tragedy  are  possessed  with  a  notion 
that  when  they  represent  a  virtuous  or  innocent  person  in  dis- 
tress, they  ought  not  to  leave  him  till  they  have  delivered  him 
out  of  his  troubles,  or  made  him  triumph  over  his  enemies. 
This  error  they  have  been  led  into  by  a  ridiculous  doctrine  in 
modern  criticism,  that  they  are  obliged  to  an  equal  distribu- 
tion of  rewards  and  punishments,  and  an  impartial  execution 
of  poetical  justice.  Who  were  the  first  that  established  this  rule 
I  know  not;  but  I  am  sure  it  has  no  foundation  in  nature,  in 
reason,  or  in  the  practice  of  the  ancients.  We  find  that  good 
and  evil  happen  alike  to  all  men  on  this  side  the  grave;  and  as 
the  principal  design  of  tragedy  is  to  raise  commiseration  and 
terror  in  the  minds  of  the  audience,  we  shall  defeat  this  great 
end  if  we  always  make  virtue  and  innocence  happy  and  suc- 
cessful. Whatever  crosses  and  disappointments  a  good  man 
suffers  in  the  body  of  the  tragedy,  they  will  make  but  small 
impression  on  our  minds,  when  we  know  that  in  the  last  act  he 
is  to  arrive  at  the  end  of  his  wishes  and  desires.  When  we  see 
him  engaged  in  the  depth  of  his  afflictions,  we  are  apt  to  com- 
fort ourselves,  because  we  are  sure  he  will  find  his  way  out  of 
them,  and  that  his  grief,  how  great  soever  it  may  be  at  present, 
will  soon  terminate  in  gladness.  For  this  reason  the  ancient 
writers  of  tragedy  treated  men  in  their  plays,  as  they  are  dealt 
with  in  the  world,  by  making  virtue  sometimes  happy  and 
sometimes  miserable,  as  they  found  it  in  the  fable  which  they 
made  choice  of,  or  as  it  might  affect  their  audience  in  the  most 
agreeable  manner.  Aristotle  considers  the  tragedies  that  were 
written  in  either  of  these  kinds,  and  observes  that  those  which 
ended  unhappily  had  always  pleased  the  people,  and  carried 
away  the  prize  in  the  public  disputes  of  the  stage,  from  those 


THE   SPECTATOR  175 

that  ended  happily.  Terror  and  commiseration  leave  a  pleas- 
ing anguish  in  the  mind,  and  fix  the  audience  in  such  a  serious 
composure  of  thought,  as  is  much  more  lasting  and  delightful 
than  any  little  transient  starts  of  joy  and  satisfaction.  Accord- 
ingly we  find  that  more  of  our  English  tragedies  have  suc- 
ceeded, in  which  the  favorites  of  the  audience  sink  under  their 
calamities,  than  those  in  which  they  recover  themselves  out  of 
them.  The  best  plays  of  this  kind  are  The  Orphan,  Venice 
Preserved,  Alexander  the  Great,  Theodosius,  All  for  Love,  (Edipus, 
Oroonoko,  Othello,1  etc.  King  Lear  is  an  admirable  tragedy  of 
the  same  kind,  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it;  but  as  it  is  reformed2 
according  to  the  chimerical  notion  of  poetical  justice,  in  my 
humble  opinion  it  has  lost  half  its  beauty.  At  the  same  time  I 
must  allow  that  there  are  very  noble  tragedies  which  have 
been  framed  upon  the  other  plan,  and  have  ended  happily;  as 
indeed  most  of  the  good  tragedies,  which  have  been  written 
since  the  starting  of  the  above  mentioned  criticism,  have  taken 
this  turn :  as  The  Mourning  Bride,  Tamerlane,  Ulysses,  Phcedra 
and  Hippolitus,3  with  most  of  Mr.  Dryden's.  I  must  also  allow 
that  many  of  Shakespeare's,  and  several  of  the  celebrated  trage- 
dies of  antiquity,  are  cast  in  the  same  form.  I  do  not  there- 
fore dispute  against  this  way  of  writing  tragedies,  but  against 
the  criticism  that  would  establish  this  as  the  only  method,  and 
by  that  means  would  very  much  cramp  the  English  tragedy, 
and  perhaps  give  a  wrong  bent  to  the  genius  of  our  writers. 

The  tragi-comedy,  which  is  the  product  of  the  English 
theatre,  is  one  of  the  most  monstrous  inventions  that  ever 
entered  into  a  poet's  thoughts.  An  author  might  as  well  think 
of  weaving  the  adventures  of  y£neas  and  Hudibras  into  one 
poem,  as  of  writing  such  a  motley  piece  of  mirth  and  sorrow. 
But  the  absurdity  of  these  performances  is  so  very  visible  that 
I  shall  not  insist  upon  it. 

The  same  objections  which  are  made  to  tragi-comedy  may 
in  some  measure  be  applied  to  all  tragedies  that  have  a  double 
plot  in  them,  which  are  likewise  more  frequent  upon  the  Eng- 

1  Of  these  plays,  The  Orphan  and  Venice  Preserved  are  by  Otway,  Alexander  and  Tkeo- 
dosius  by  Lee,  All  J 'or  Love  by  Dryden,  (Edipus  by  Dryden  and  Lee,  Oroonoko  by  Mrs. 
Behn. 

2  In  an  altered  version,  by  Nahum  Tate. 

»  The  Mourning  Bride  is  by  Congreve,  Tamerlane  and  Ulysses  by  Rowe,  Phadra  by 
Edmund  Smith  (from  Racine). 


176  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

lish  stage  than  upon  any  other;  for  though  the  grief  of  the 
audience,  in  such  performances,  be  not  changed  into  another 
passion,  as  in  tragi-comedies,  it  is  diverted  upon  another  ob- 
ject, which  weakens  their  concern  for  the  principal  action,  and 
breaks  the  tide  of  sorrow  by  throwing  it  into  different  channels. 
This  inconvenience,  however,  may  in  a  great  measure  be  cured, 
if  not  wholly  removed,  by  the  skillful  choice  of  an  under-plot, 
which  may  bear  such  a  near  relation  to  the  principal  design  as 
to  contribute  towards  the  completion  of  it,  and  be  concluded 
by  the  same  catastrophe. 

There  is  also  another  particular  which  may  be  reckoned 
among  the  blemishes,  or  rather  the  false  beauties,  of  our  Eng- 
lish tragedy:  I  mean  those  particular  speeches  which  are  com- 
monly known  by  the  name  of  "  rants."  The  warm  and  passion- 
ate parts  of  a  tragedy  are  always  the  most  taking  with  the 
audience;  for  which  reason  we  often  see  the  players  pronounc- 
ing, in  all  the  violence  of  action,  several  parts  of  the  tragedy 
which  the  author  writ  with  great  temper,  and  designed  that 
they  should  have  been  so  acted.  I  have  seen  Powell  very  often 
raise  himself  a  loud  clap  by  this  artifice.  The  poets  that  were 
acquainted  with  this  secret  have  given  frequent  occasion  for 
such  emotions  in  the  actor,  by  adding  vehemence  to  words 
where  there  was  no  passion,  or  inflaming  a  real  passion  into 
fustian.  This  hath  filled  the  mouths  of  our  heroes  with  bom- 
bast, and  given  them  such  sentiments  as  proceed  rather  from 
a  swelling  than  a  greatness  of  mind.  Unnatural  exclama- 
tions, curses,  vows,  blasphemies,  a  defiance  of  mankind,  and 
an  outraging  of  the  gods,  frequently  pass  upon  the  audience 
for  towering  thoughts,  and  have  accordingly  met  with  infinite 
applause.  .  .  . 

No.  50.  FRIDAY,  APRIL  27,  1711 

Nunquam  aliud  natura,  aliud  sapienlia  dixit.  —  Juv. 

When  the  four  Indian  kings  were  in  this  country  about  a 
twelvemonth  ago,  I  often  mixed  with  the  rabble,  and  followed 
them  a  whole  day  together,  being  wonderfully  struck  with  the 
sight  of  everything  that  is  new  or  uncommon.  I  have,  since 
their  departure,  employed  a  friend  to  make  many  inquiries  of 
their  landlord  the  upholsterer,  relating  to  their  manners  and 
conversation,  as  also  concerning  the  remarks  which  they  made 


THE   SPECTATOR  177 

in  this  country;  for,  next  to  the  forming  a  right  notion  of  such 
strangers,  I  should  be  desirous  of  learning  what  ideas  they  have 
conceived  of  us. 

The  upholsterer,  finding  my  friend  very  inquisitive  about 
these  his  lodgers,  brought  him  some  time  since  a  little  bundle 
of  papers,  which  he  assured  him  were  written  by  King  Sa  Ga 
Yean  Qua  Rash  Tow,  and,  as  he  supposes,  left  behind  by  some 
mistake.  These  papers  are  now  translated,  and  contain  abun- 
dance of  very  odd  observations,  which  I  find  this  little  fra- 
ternity of  kings  made  during  their  stay  in  the  isle  of  Great 
Britain.  I  shall  present  my  reader  with  a  short  specimen  of 
them  in  this  paper,  and  may  perhaps  communicate  more  to 
him  hereafter.  In  the  article  of  London  are  the  following  words, 
which  without  doubt  are  meant  of  the  church  of  St.  Paul. 

"On  the  most  rising  part  of  the  town  there  stands  a  huge 
house,  big  enough  to  contain  the  whole  nation  of  which  I  am 
king.  Our  good  brother  E  Tow  O  Koam,  King  of  the  Rivers, 
is  of  opinion  it  was  made  by  the  hands  of  that  great  God  to 
whom  it  is  consecrated.  The  Kings  of  Granajah  and  of  the 
Six  Nations  believe  that  it  was  created  with  the  earth,  and 
produced  on  the  same  day  with  the  sun  and  moon.  But  for 
my  own  part,  by  the  best  information  that  I  could  get  of  this 
matter,  I  am  apt  to  think  that  this  prodigious  pile  was  fash- 
ioned into  the  shape  it  now  bears  by  several  tools  and  instru- 
ments, of  which  they  have  a  wonderful  variety  in  this  country. 
It  was  probably  at  first  an  huge  misshapen  rock  that  grew  upon 
the  top  of  the  hill,  which  the  natives  of  the  country  (after 
having  cut  it  into  a  kind  of  regular  figure)  bored  and  hollowed 
with  incredible  pains  and  industry,  till  they  had  wrought  in  it 
all  those  beautiful  vaults  and  caverns  into  which  it  is  divided 
at  this  day.  As  soon  as  this  rock  was  thus  curiously  scooped 
to  their  liking,  a  prodigious  number  of  hands  must  have  been 
employed  in  chipping  the  outside  of  it,  which  is  now  as  smooth 
as  the  surface  of  a  pebble,  and  is  in  several  places  hewn  out 
into  pillars,  that  stand  like  the  trunks  of  so  many  trees  bound 
about  the  top  with  garlands  of  leaves.  It  is  probable  that  when 
this  great  work  was  begun,  which  must  have  been  many  hun- 
dred years  ago,  there  was  some  religion  among  this  people;  for 
they  give  it  the  name  of  a  temple,  and  have  a  tradition  that  it 
was  designed  for  men  to  pay  their  devotions  in.  And  indeed 


;  178  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

there  are  several  reasons  which  make  us  think  that  the  natives 
of  this  country  had  formerly  among  them  some  sort  of  wor- 
ship, for  they  set  apart  every  seventh  day  as  sacred ;  but  upon 
my  going  into  one  of  these  holy  houses  on  that  day,  I  could 
not  observe  any  circumstance  of  devotion  in  their  behavior. 
There  was  indeed  a  man  in  black  who  was  mounted  above  the 
rest,  and  seemed  to  utter  something  with  a  great  deal  of 
vehemence;  but  as  for  those  underneath  him,  instead  of  pay- 
ing their  worship  to  the  deity  of  the  place,  they  were  most  of 
them  bowing  and  curtsying  to  one  another,  and  a  considerable 
number  of  them  fast  asleep. 

"The  queen  of  the  country  appointed  two  men  to  attend  us, 
that  had  enough  of  our  language  to  make  themselves  under- 
stood in  some  few  particulars.  But  we  soon  perceived  these 
two  were  great  enemies  to  one  another,  and  did  not  always 
agree  in  the  same  story.  We  could  make  a  shift  to  gather  out 
of  one  of  them,  that  this  island  was  very  much  infested  with  a 
monstrous  kind  of  animals,  in  the  shape  of  men,  called  Whigs; 
and  he  often  told  us  that  he  hoped  we  should  meet  with  none 
of  them  in  our  way,  for  that  if  we  did,  they  would  be  apt  to 
knock  us  down  for  being  kings. 

"Our  other  interpreter  used  to  talk  very  much  of  a  kind  of 
animal  called  a  Tory,  that  was  as  great  a  monster  as  the  Whig, 
and  would  treat  us  as  ill  for  being  foreigners.  These  two  crea- 
tures, it  seems,  are  born  with  a  secret  antipathy  to  one  an- 
other, and  engage  when  they  meet  as  naturally  as  the  elephant 
and  the  rhinoceros.  But  as  we  saw  none  of  either  of  these 
species,  we  are  apt  to  think  that  our  guides  deceived  us  with 
misrepresentations  and  fictions,  and  amused  us  with  an  account 
of  such  monsters  as  are  not  really  in  their  country. 

"These  particulars  we  made  a  shift  to  pick  out  from  the 
discourse  of  our  interpreters,  which  we  put  together  as  well  as 
we  could,  being  able  to  understand  but  here  and  there  a  word 
of  what  they  said,  and  afterwards  making  up  the  meaning  of 
it  among  ourselves.  The  men  of  the  country  are  very  cunning 
and  ingenious  in  handicraft  works,  but  withal  so  very  idle  that 
we  often  saw  young  lusty  rawboned  fellows  carried  up  and 
down  the  streets  in  little  covered  rooms  by  a  couple  of  porters, 
who  are  hired  for  that  service.  Their  dress  is  likewise  very 
barbarous,  for  they  almost  strangle  themselves  about  the  neck, 


THE    SPECTATOR 


179 


and  bind  their  bodies  with  many  ligatures,  that  we  are  apt  to 
think  are  the  occasion  of  several  distempers  among  them, 
which  our  country  is  entirely  free  from.  Instead  of  those 
beautiful  feathers  with  which  we  adorn  our  heads,  they  often 
buy  up  a  monstrous  bush  of  hair,  which  covers  their  heads, 
and  falls  down  in  a  large  fleece  below  the  middle  of  their  backs; 
with  which  they  walk  up  and  down  the  streets,  and  are  as 
proud  of  it  as  if  it  was  of  their  own  growth. 

"We  were  invited  to  one  of  their  public  diversions,  where 
we  hoped  to  have  seen  the  great  men  of  their  country  running 
down  a  stag  or  pitching  a  bar,  that  we  might  have  discovered 
who  were  the  persons  of  the  greatest  abilities  among  them; 
but  instead  of  that,  they  conveyed  us  into  a  huge  room  lighted 
up  with  abundance  of  candles,  where  this  lazy  people  sat  still 
above  three  hours  to  see  several  feats  of  ingenuity  performed 
by  others,  who  it  seems  were  paid  for  it. 

"As  for  the  women  of  the  country,  not  being  able  to  talk 
with  them,  we  could  only  make  our  remarks  upon  them  at  a 
distance.  They  let  the  hair  of  their  heads  grow  to  a  great 
length;  but  as  the  men  make  a  great  show  with  heads  of  hair 
that  are  none  of  their  own,  the  women,  who  they  say  have  very 
fine  heads  of  hair,  tie  it  up  in  a  knot,  and  cover  it  from  being 
seen.  The  women  look  like  angels,  and  would  be  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  sun,  were  it  not  for  little  black  spots  that  are  apt 
to  break  out  in  their  faces,  and  sometimes  rise  in  very  odd 
figures.1  I  have  observed  that  those  little  blemishes  wear  off 
very  soon;  but  when  they  disappear  in  one  part  of  the  face, 
they  are  very  apt  to  break  out  in  another,  insomuch  that  I  have 
seen  a  spot  upon  the  forehead  in  the  afternoon,  which  was  upon 
the  chin  in  the  morning." 

The  author  then  proceeds  to  show  the  absurdity  of  breeches 
and  petticoats,  with  many  other  curious  observations,  which 
I  shall  reserve  for  another  occasion.  I  cannot,  however,  con- 
clude this  paper  without  taking  notice  that,  amidst  these  wild 
remarks,  there  now  and  then  appears  something  very  reason- 
able. I  cannot  likewise  forbear  observing  that  we  are  all  guilty 
in  some  measure  of  the  same  narrow  way  of  thinking  which  we 
meet  with  in  this  abstract  of  the  Indian  journal,  when  we  fancy 
the  customs,  dresses,  and  manners  of  other  countries  are  ridicu- 
lous and  extravagant,  if  they  do  not  resemble  those  of  our  own. 

1  See  No.  81,  below. 


i8o  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

No.  62. 1  FRIDAY,  MAY  n,  1711 

Scribendi  recte  sapere  esl  el  principium  et  fans.  —  HOR. 

Mr.  Locke  has  an  admirable  reflection  upon  the  difference  of 
wit  and  judgment,  whereby  he  endeavors  to  show  the  reason 
why  they  are  not  always  the  talents  of  the  same  person.  His 
words  are  as  follow:  "And  hence,  perhaps,  may  be  given  some 
reason  of  that  common  observation,  that  men  who  have  a 
great  deal  of  wit,  and  prompt  memories,  have  not  always  the 
clearest  judgment  or  deepest  reason.  For  wit  lying  most  in 
the  assemblage  of  ideas,  and  putting  those  together  with 
quickness  and  variety  wherein  can  be  found  any  resemblance 
or  congruity,  thereby  to  make  up  pleasant  pictures,  and  agree- 
able visions  in  the  fancy;  judgment,  on  the  contrary,  lies  quite 
on  the  other  side,  in  separating  carefully  one  from  another 
ideas  wherein  can  be  found  the  least  difference,  thereby  to 
avoid  being  misled  by  similitude,  and  by  affinity  to  take  one 
thing  for  another.  This  is  a  way  of  proceeding  quite  contrary 
to  metaphor  and  allusion,  wherein,  for  the  most  part,  lies  that 
entertainment  and  pleasantry  of  wit,  which  strikes  so  lively 
on  the  fancy,  and  is  therefore  so  acceptable  to  all  people." 

This  is,  I  think,  the  best  and  most  philosophical  account 
that  I  have  ever  met  with  of  wit,  which  generally,  though  not 
always,  consists  in  such  a  resemblance  and  congruity  of  ideas 
as  this  author  mentions.  I  shall  only  add  to  it,  by  way  of  ex- 
planation, that  every  resemblance  of  ideas  is  not  that  which  we 
call  wit,  unless  it  be  such  a  one  that  gives  delight  and  surprise 
to  the  reader.  These  two  properties  seem  essential  to  wit,  more 
particularly  the  last  of  them.  In  order,  therefore,  that  the  re- 
semblance in  the  ideas  be  wit,  it  is  necessary  that  the  ideas 
should  not  lie  too  near  one  another  in  the  nature  of  things; 
for  where  the  likeness  is  obvious,  it  gives  no  surprise.  To  com- 
pare one  man's  singing  to  that  of  another,  or  to  represent  the 
whiteness  of  any  object  by  that  of  milk  and  snow,  or  the  variety 
of  its  colors  by  those  of  the  rainbow,  cannot  be  called  wit, 
unless,  besides  this  obvious  resemblance,  there  be  some  farther 
congruity  discovered  in  the  two  ideas,  that  is  capable  of  giving 
the  reader  some  surprise.  Thus  when  a  poet  tells  us  the  bosom 
of  his  mistress  is  as  white  as  snow,  there  is  no  wit  in  the  com- 

1  The  6fth  of  six  papers  on  Wit. 


THE   SPECTATOR  181 

parison;  but  when  he  adds,  with  a  sigh,  it  is  as  cold  too,  it 
then  grows  into  wit.  Every  reader's  memory  may  supply  him 
with  innumerable  instances  of  the  same  nature.  For  this 
reason  the  similitudes  in  heroic  poets,  who  endeavor  rather  to 
fill  the  mind  with  great  conceptions  than  to  divert  it  with  such 
as  are  new  and  surprising,  have  seldom  anything  in  them  that 
can  be  called  wit.  Mr.  Locke's  account  of  wit,  with  this  short 
explanation,  comprehends  most  of  the  species  of  wit,  —  as 
metaphors,  similitudes,  allegories,  enigmas,  mottos,  parables, 
fables,  dreams,  visions,  dramatic  writings,  burlesque,  and  all 
the  methods  of  allusion.  There  are  many  other  species  of  wit, 
how  remote  soever  they  may  appear  at  first  sight  from  the  fore- 
going description,  which  upon  examination  will  be  found  to 
agree  with  it. 

As  true  wit  generally  consists  in  this  resemblance  and  con- 
gruity  of  ideas,  false  wit  chiefly  consists  in  the  resemblance  and 
congruity,  sometimes  of  single  letters,  as  in  anagrams,  chrono- 
grams, lipograms,  and  acrostics;  sometimes  of  syllables,  as  in 
echoes  and  doggerel  rhymes ;  and  sometimes  of  whole  sentences 
or  poems,  cast  into  the  figures  of  eggs,  axes,  or  altars.  Nay, 
some  carry  the  notion  of  wit  so  far  as  to  ascribe  it  even  to  ex- 
ternal mimicry,  and  to  look  upon  a  man  as  an  ingenious  per- 
son that  can  resemble  the  tone,  posture,  or  face  of  another. 

As  true  wit  consists  in  the  resemblance  of  ideas,  and  false 
wit  in  the  resemblance  of  words,  according  to  the  foregoing 
instances,  there  is  another  kind  of  wit  which  consists  partly 
in  the  resemblance  of  ideas,  and  partly  in  the  resemblance  of 
words,  which  for  distinction  sake  I  shall  call  mixed  wit.  This 
kind  of  wit  is  that  which  abounds  in  Cowley,  more  than  in  any 
other  author  that  ever  wrote.  Mr.  Waller  has  likewise  a  great 
deal  of  it.  Mr.  Dryden  is  very  sparing  in  it.  Milton  had  a 
genius  much  above  it.  Spenser  is  in  the  same  class  with  Milton. 
The  Italians,  even  in  their  epic  poetry,  are  full  of  it.  Monsieur 
Boileau,  who  formed  himself  upon  the  ancient  poets,  has 
everywhere  rejected  it  with  scorn.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  innumerable  branches  of  mixed  wit,  I  shall  choose 
one  instance  which  may  be  met  with  in  all  the  writers  of  this 
class.  The  passion  of  love  in  its  nature  has  been  thought  to 
resemble  fire,  for  which  reason  the  words  fire  and  flame  are 
made  use  of  to  signify  love.  The  witty  poets  therefore  have 


182  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

taken  an  advantage  from  the  double  meaning  of  the  word  fire, 
to  make  an  infinite  number  of  witticisms.  Cowley,  observing 
the  cold  regard  of  his  mistress's  eyes,  and  at  the  same  time  their 
power  of  producing  love  in  him,  considers  them  as  burning- 
glasses  made  of  ice;  and,  finding  himself  able  to  live  in  the 
greatest  extremities  of  love,  concludes  the  torrid  zone  to  be 
habitable.  When  his  mistress  has  read  his  letter  written  in 
juice  of  lemon,  by  holding  it  to  the  fire,  he  desires  her  to  read 
it  over  a  second  time  by  love's  flame.  When  she  weeps,  he 
wishes  it  were  inward  heat  that  distilled  those  drops  from  the 
limbeck.  When  she  is  absent,  he  is  beyond  eighty,  —  that  is, 
thirty  degrees  nearer  the  Pole  than  when  she  is  with  him.  His 
ambitious  love  is  a  fire  that  naturally  mounts  upwards;  his 
happy  love  is  the  beams  of  heaven,  and  his  unhappy  love 
flames  of  hell.  When  it  does  not  let  him  sleep,  it  is  a  flame  that 
sends  up  no  smoke;  when  it  is  opposed  by  counsel  and  advice, 
it  is  a  fire  that  rages  the  more  by  the  winds  blowing  upon  it. 
Upon  the  dying  of  a  tree  in  which  he  had  cut  his  loves,  he 
observed  that  his  written  flames  had  burnt  up  and  withered 
the  tree.  When  he  resolves  to  give  over  his  passion,  he  tells  us 
that  one  burnt  like  him  forever  dreads  the  fire.  His  heart  is 
an  /Etna,  that,  instead  of  Vulcan's  shop,  encloses  Cupid's  forge 
in  it.  His  endeavoring  to  drown  his  love  in  wine  is  throwing  oil 
upon  the  fire.  He  would  insinuate  to  his  mistress  that  the  fire 
of  love,  like  that  of  the  sun  (which  produces  so  many  living 
creatures),  should  not  only  warm,  but  beget.  Love,  in  another 
place,  cooks  pleasure  at  his  fire.  Sometimes  the  poet's  heart 
is  frozen  in  every  breast,  and  sometimes  scorched  in  every  eye. 
Sometimes  he  is  drowned  in  tears  and  burnt  in  love,  like  a  ship 
set  on  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  sea. 

The  reader  may  observe  in  every  one  of  these  instances,  that 
the  poet  mixes  the  qualities  of  fire  with  those  of  love;  and,  in 
the  same  sentence  speaking  of  it  both  as  a  passion  and  as  real 
fire,  surprises  the  reader  with  those  seeming  resemblances  or 
contradictions  that  make  up  all  the  wit  in  this  kind  of  writ- 
ing. Mixed  wit  is  therefore  a  composition  of  pun  and  true  wit, 
and  is  more  or  less  perfect  as  the  resemblance  lies  in  the  ideas 
or  in  the  words.  Its  foundations  are  laid  partly  in  falsehood 
and  partly  in  truth;  reason  puts  in  her  claim  for  one  half  of  it, 
and  extravagance  for  the  other.  The  only  province,  therefore, 


THE   SPECTATOR  183 

for  this  kind  of  wit  is  epigram,  or  those  little  occasional  poems 
that  in  their  own  nature  are  nothing  else  but  a  tissue  of  epi- 
grams. I  cannot  conclude  this  head  of  mixed  wit  without  own- 
ing that  the  admirable  poet  out  of  whom  I  have  taken  the 
examples  of  it,  had  as  much  true  wit  as  any  author  that  ever 
writ,  and  indeed  all  other  talents  of  an  extraordinary  genius. 

It  may  be  expected,  since  I  am  upon  this  subject,  that  I 
should  take  notice  of  Mr.  Dryden's  definition  of  wit;  which, 
with  all  the  deference  that  is  due  to  the  judgment  of  so  great 
a  man,  is  not  so  properly  a  definition  of  wit  as  of  good  writing 
in  general.  Wit,  as  he  defines  it,  is  "a  propriety  of  words  and 
thoughts  adapted  to  the  subject."  If  this  be  a  true  definition 
of  wit,  I  am  apt  to  think  that  Euclid  was  the  greatest  wit  that 
ever  set  pen  to  paper.  It  is  certain  there  never  was  a  greater 
propriety  of  words  and  thoughts  adapted  to  the  subject,  than 
what  that  author  has  made  use  of  in  his  Elements.  I  shall  only 
appeal  to  my  reader  if  this  definition  agrees  with  any  notion 
he  has  of  wit.  If  it  be  a  true  one,  I  am  sure  Mr.  Dryden  was 
not  only  a  better  poet,  but  a  greater  wit,  than  Mr.  Cowley,  and 
Virgil  a  much  more  facetious  man  than  either  Ovid  or  Martial. 

Bouhours,  whom  I  look  upon  to  be  the  most  penetrating  of 
all  the  French  critics,  has  taken  pains  to  show  that  it  is  im- 
possible for  any  thought  to  be  beautiful  which  is  not  just,  and 
has  not  its  foundation  in  the  nature  of  things;  that  the  basis 
of  all  wit  is  truth;  and  that  no  thought  can  be  valuable  of 
which  good  sense  is  not  the  ground-work.  Boileau  has  en- 
deavored to  inculcate  the  same  notion  in  several  parts  of  his 
writings,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  This  is  that  natural  way  of 
writing,  that  beautiful  simplicity,  which  we  so  much  admire 
in  the  compositions  of  the  ancients,  and  which  nobody  devi- 
ates from  but  those  who  want  strength  of  genius  to  make  a 
thought  shine  in  its  own  natural  beauties.  Poets  who  want  this 
Strength  of  genius  to  give  that  majestic  simplicity  to  nature 
which  we  so  much  admire  in  the  works  of  the  ancients,  are 
forced  to  hunt  after  foreign  ornaments,  and  not  to  let  any 
piece  of  wit  of  what  kind  soever  escape  them.  I  look  upon 
these  writers  as  Goths  in  poetry,  who,  like  those  in  architecture, 
not  being  able  to  come  up  to  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  the  old 
Greeks  and  Romans,  have  endeavored  to  supply  its  place  with 
all  the  extravagancies  of  an  irregular  fancy.  .  .  .  Were  I  not 


184  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

supported  by  so  great  an  authority  as  that  of  Mr.  Dryden,  I 
should  not  venture  to  observe  that  the  taste  of  most  of  our 
English  poets,  as  well  as  readers,  is  extremely  Gothic.  .  ..  . 

No.  70.  MONDAY,  MAY  21,  1711 

Interdum  mdgus  rectum  videt.  —  HOR. 

When  I  traveled,  I  took  a  particular  delight  in  hearing  the 
songs  and  fables  that  are  come  from  father  to  son,  and  are 
most  in  vogue  among  the  common  people  of  the  countries 
through  which  I  passed;  for  it  is  impossible  that  anything 
should  be  universally  tasted  and  approved  by  a  multitude, 
though  they  are  only  the  rabble  of  a  nation,  which  hath  not 
in  it  some  peculiar  aptness  to  please  and  gratify  the  mind  of 
man.  Human  nature  is  the  same  in  all  reasonable  creatures; 
and  whatever  falls  in  with  it  will  meet  with  admirers  amongst 
readers  of  all  qualities  and  conditions.  Moliere,  as  we  are  told 
by  Monsieur  Boileau,  used  to  read  all  his  comedies  to  an  old 
woman  who  was  his  housekeeper,  as  she  sat  with  him  at  her 
work  by  the  chimney-corner,  and  could  foretell  the  success  of 
his  play  in  the  theatre,  from  the  reception  it  met  at  his  fire- 
side; for  he  tells  us  the  audience  always  followed  the  old  woman, 
and  never  failed  to  laugh  in  the  same  place. 

I  know  nothing  which  more  shows  the  essential  and  inherent 
perfection  of  simplicity  of  thought,  above  that  which  I  call 
the  Gothic  manner  in  writing,  than  this:  the  first  pleases  all 
kinds  of  palates,  and  the  latter  only  such  as  have  formed  to 
themselves  a  wrong  artificial  taste  upon  little  fanciful  authors 
and  writers  of  epigram.  Homer,  Virgil,  or  Milton,  so  far  as  the 
language  of  their  poems  is  understood,  will  please  a  reader  of 
plain  common  sense,  who  would  neither  relish  nor  comprehend 
an  epigram  of  Martial,  or  a  poem  of  Cowley;  so,  on  the  con- 
trary, an  ordinary  song  or  ballad  that  is  the  delight  of  the  com- 
mon people,  cannot  fail  to  please  all  such  readers  as  are  not 
unqualified  for  the  entertainment  by  their  affectation  or  igno- 
rance; and  the  reason  is  plain,  because  the  same  paintings  of 
nature  which  recommend  it  to  the  most  ordinary  reader,  will 
appear  beautiful  to  the  most  refined. 

The  old  song  of  Chevy  Chase  is  the  favorite  ballad  of  the 
common  people  of  England,  and  Ben  Jonson  used  to  say  he  had 


THE    SPECTATOR  185 

rather  have  been  the  author  of  it  than  of  all  his  works.  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  in  his  discourse  of  Poetry,  speaks  of  it  in  the 
following  words:  "I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Percy  and 
Douglas,  that  I  found  not  my  heart  more  moved  than  with  a 
trumpet;  and  yet  it  is  sung  by  some  blind  crowder  with  no 
rougher  voice  than  rude  style ;  which  being  so  evil  appareled  in 
the  dust  and  cobweb  of  that  uncivil  age,  what  would  it  work 
trimmed  in  the  gorgeous  eloquence  of  Pindar?"  For  my  own 
part,  I  am  so  professed  an  admirer  of  this  antiquated  song  that 
I  shall  give  my  reader  a  critique  upon  it,  without  any  further 
apology  for  so  doing. 

The  greatest  modern  critics  have  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  that 
an  heroic  poem  should  be  founded  upon  some  important 
precept  of  morality,  adapted  to  the  constitution  of  the  country 
in  which  the  poet  writes.  Homer  and  Virgil  have  formed  their 
plans  in  this  view.  As  Greece  was  a  collection  of  many  govern- 
ments, who  suffered  very  much  among  themselves,  and  gave 
the  Persian  emperor,  who  was  their  common  enemy,  many 
advantages  over  them  by  their  mutual  jealousies  and  ani- 
mosities, Homer,  in  order  to  establish  among  them  an  union, 
which  was  so  necessary  for  their  safety,  grounds  his  poem  upon 
the  discords  of  the  several  Grecian  princes  who  were  engaged 
in  a  confederacy  against  an  Asiatic  prince,  and  the  several 
advantages  which  the  enemy  gained  by  such  their  discords. 
At  the  time  the  poem  we  are  now  treating  of  was  written,  the 
dissensions  of  the  barons,  who  were  then  so  many  petty  princes, 
ran  very  high,  whether  they  quarreled  among  themselves,  or 
with  their  neighbors,  and  produced  unspeakable  calamities  to 
the  country.  The  poet,  to  deter  men  from  such  unnatural  con- 
tentions, describes  a  bloody  battle  and  dreadful  scene  of  death, 
occasioned  by  the  mutual  feuds  which  reigned  in  the  families 
of  an  English  and  Scotch  nobleman.  That  he  designed  this 
for  the  instruction  of  his  poem,  we  may  learn  from  his  four 
last  lines,  in  which,  after  the  example  of  the  modern  trage- 
dians, he  draws  from  it  a  precept  for  the  benefit  of  his  read- 
ers:— 

God  save  the  King,  and  bless  the  land 

In  plenty,  joy,  and  peace; 
And  grant  henceforth  that  foul  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 


186  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

The  next  point  observed  by  the  greatest  heroic  poets,  hath 
been  to  celebrate  persons  and  actions  which  do  honor  to  their 
country:  thus  Virgil's  hero  was  the  founder  of  Rome,  Homer's 
a  prince  of  Greece;  and  for  this  reason  Valerius  Flaccus  and 
Statius,  who  were  both  Romans,  might  be  justly  derided  for 
having  chosen  the  expedition  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  and  the 
Wars  of  Thebes,  for  the  subject  of  their  epic  writings. 

The  poet  before  us  has  not  only  found  out  an  hero  in  his 
own  country,  but  raises  the  reputation  of  it  by  several  beauti- 
ful incidents.  The  English  are  the  first  who  take  the  field,  and 
the  last  who  quit  it.  The  English  bring  only  fifteen  hundred 
to  the  battle,  and  the  Scotch  two  thousand.  The  English  keep 
the  field  with  fifty- three;  the  Scotch  retire  with  fifty-five;  all 
the  rest  on  each  side  being  slain  in  battle.  But  the  most  re- 
markable circumstance  of  this  kind  is  the  different  manner 
in  which  the  Scotch  and  English  kings  receive  the  news  of  this 
fight,  and  of  the  great  men's  deaths  who  commanded  in  it. 

This  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 

Where  Scotland's  king  did  reign, 
That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 

Was  with  an  arrow  slain. 

0  heavy  news,  King  James  did  say; 
Scotland  can  witness  be, 

1  have  not  any  captain  more 
Of  such  account  as  he. 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy-Chase. 

Now  God  be  with  him,  said  our  King, 

Sith  't  will  no  better  be; 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he. 

Yet  shall  not  Scot  nor  Scotland  say 

But  I  will  vengeance  take, 
And  be  revenged  on  them  all 

For  brave  Lord  Percy's  sake. 

This  vow  full  well  the  King  performed 
After  on  Humble-down; 


THE   SPECTATOR  187 

In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain, 
With  lords  of  great  renown. 

And  of  the  rest  of  small  account 
Did  many  thousand  die,  etc. 

At  the  same  time  that  our  poet  shows  a  laudable  partiality  to 
his  countrymen,  he  represents  the  Scots  after  a  manner  not 
unbecoming  so  bold  and  brave  a  people. 

Earl  Douglas  on  a  milk-white  steed, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  the  company, 

Whose  armor  shone  like  gold. 

His  sentiments  and  actions  are  every  way  suitable  to  an  hero. 
"One  of  us  two,"  says  he,  "must  die.  I  am  an  earl  as  well  as 
yourself,  so  that  you  can  have  no  pretence  for  refusing  the 
combat;  however  (says  he),  'tis  pity,  and  indeed  would  be  a 
sin,  that  so  many  innocent  men  should  perish  for  our  sakes; 
rather  let  you  and  I  end  our  quarrel  in  single  fight." 

Ere  thus  I  will  outbraved  be, 

One  of  us  two  shall  die; 
I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  art, 

Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were, 

And  great  offense,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  harmless  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

Let  thou  and  I  the  battle  try, 

And  set  our  men  aside; 
Accurs'd  be  he,  Lord  Percy  said, 

By  whom  this  is  denied. 

When  these  brave  men  had  distinguished  themselves  in  the 
battle  and  in  single  combat  with  each  other,  in  the  midst  of 
a  generous  parley,  full  of  heroic  sentiments,  the  Scotch  earl 
falls;  and  with  his  dying  words  encourages  his  men  to  revenge 
his  death,  representing  to  them,  as  the  most  bitter  circum- 
stance of  it,  that  his  rival  saw  him  fall. 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow. 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow. 


i88  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

Who  never  spoke  more  words  than  these: 

Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all, 
For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end, 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall. 

"Merry  men,"  in  the  language  of  those  times,  is  no  more  than 
a  cheerful  word  for  companions  and  fellow-soldiers.  A  passage 
in  the  eleventh  book  of  Virgil's  Mneids  is  very  much  to  be 
admired,  where  Camilla,  in  her  last  agonies,  instead  of  weeping 
over  the  wound  she  had  received,  as  one  might  have  expected 
from  a  warrior  of  her  sex,  considers  only  (like  the  hero  of  whom 
we  are  now  speaking)  how  the  battle  should  be  continued  after 
her  death. 

Turn  sic  expirans,  etc. 

A  gathering  mist  o'erclouds  her  cheerful  eyes, 
And  from  her  cheeks  the  rosy  color  flies. 
Then  turns  to  her  whom,  of  her  female  train, 
She  trusted  most,  and  thus  she  speaks-  with  pain: 
Acca,  't  is  past!  he  swims  before  my  sight, 
Inexorable  death,  and  claims  his  right. 
Bear  my  last  words  to  Turnus,  fly  with  speed, 
And  bid  him  timely  to  my  charge  succeed; 
Repel  the  Trojans,  and  the  town  relieve; 
Farewell. 

Turnus  did  not  die  in  so  heroic  a  manner;  though  our  poet 
seems  to  have  had  his  eye  upon  Turnus's  speech  in  the  last 
verse, 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall. 

Vicisti,  et  victum  tendere  palmas 
Ausonii  videre.1 

Earl  Percy's  lamentation  over  his  enemy  is  generous,  beauti- 
ful, and  passionate;  I  must  only  caution  the  reader  not  to  let 
the  simplicity  of  the  style,  which  one  may  well  pardon  in  so 
old  a  poet,  prejudice  him  against  the  greatness  of  the  thought. 

Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand, 
And  said,  Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 

Would  I  had  lost  my  land. 

1  "You  conquered,  and  the  Ausonii  saw  the  conquered  man  stretch  forth  his  hands." 


THE   SPECTATOR  189 

O  Christ!  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake; 
For  sure  a  more  renowned  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take. 

That  beautiful  line,  "Taking  the  dead  man  by  the  hand,"  will 
put  the  reader  in  mind  of  yEneas's  behavior  towards  Lausus, 
whom  he  himself  had  slain  as  he  came  to  the  rescue  of  his  aged 
father. 

At  vero  ut  vultum  vidit  morientis,  et  ora, 

Ora  modis  Anchisiades  pallentia  miris; 

Ingemuit,  miserans  graviter,  dextramque  tetendit,  etc. 

The  pious  prince  beheld  young  Lausus  dead; 

He  grieved,  he  wept;  then  grasped  his  hand,  and  said: 

Poor  hapless  youth!  what  praises  can  be  paid 

To  worth  so  great! 

I  shall  take  another  opportunity  to  consider  the  other  parts 
of  this  old  song. 

No.  81.  SATURDAY,  JUNE  2,  1711 

Qualis  ubl  audilo  venantum  murmure  tigris 
Horruit  in  maculas.  —  STATIUS. 

About  the  middle  of  last  winter  I  went  to  see  an  opera  at 
the  theatre  in  the  Haymarket,  where  I  could  not  but  take 
notice  of  two  parties  of  very  fine  women,  that  had  placed  them- 
selves in  the  opposite  side-boxes,  and  seemed  drawn  up  in  a 
kind  of  battle  array  one  against  another.  After  a  short  survey 
of  them,  I  found  they  were  patched  differently;  the  faces  on 
one  hand  being  spotted  on  the  right  side  of  the  forehead,  and 
those  upon  the  other  on  the  left.  I  quickly  perceived  that  they 
cast  hostile  glances  upon  one  another,  and  that  their  patches 
were  placed  in  those  different  situations,  as  party  signals  to 
distinguish  friends  from  foes.  In  the  middle  boxes,  between 
these  two  opposite  bodies,  were  several  ladies  who  patched  in- 
differently on  both  sides  of  their  faces,  and  seemed  to  sit  there 
with  no  other  intention  but  to  see  the  opera.  Upon  inquiry  I 
found  that  the  body  of  Amazons  on  my  right  hand  were  Whigs, 
and  those  on  my  left  Tories;  and  that  those  who  had  placed 
themselves  in  the  middle  boxes  were  a  neutral  party,  whose 
faces  had  not  yet  declared  themselves.  These  last,  however, 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 

as  I  afterwards  found,  diminished  daily,  and  took  their  party 
with  one  side  or  the  other;  insomuch  that  I  observed  in  several 
of  them  the  patches,  which  were  before  dispersed  equally,  are 
now  all  gone  over  to  the  Whig  or  Tory  side  of  the  face.  The 
censorious  say  that  the  men,  whose  hearts  are  aimed  at,  are 
very  often  the  occasions  that  one  part  of  the  face  is  thus  dis- 
honored, and  lies  under  a  kind  of  disgrace,  while  the  other  is  so 
much  set  off  and  adorned  by  the  owner;  and  that  the  patches 
turn  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  according  to  the  principles  of 
the  man  who  is  most  in  favor.  But,  whatever  may  be  the 
motives  of  a  few  fantastical  coquettes,  who  do  not  patch  for 
the  public  good  so  much  as  for  their  own  private  advantage, 
it  is  certain  that  there  are  several  women  of  honor  who  patch 
out  of  principle,  and  with  an  eye  to  the  interest  of  their  country. 
Nay,  I  am  informed  that  some  of  them  adhere  so  steadfastly 
to  their  party,  and  are  so  far  from  sacrificing  their  zeal  for  the 
public  to  their  passion  for  any  particular  person,  that  in  a  late 
draught  of  marriage  articles  a  lady  has  stipulated  with  her  hus- 
band that,  whatever  his  opinions  are,  she  shall  be  at  liberty 
to  patch  on  which  side  she  pleases. 

I  must  here  take  notice  that  Rosalinda,  a  famous  Whig 
partisan,  has  most  unfortunately  a  very  beautiful  mole  on  the 
Tory  part  of  her  forehead;  which,  being  very  conspicuous,  has 
occasioned  many  mistakes,  and  given  an  handle  to  her  enemies 
to  misrepresent  her  face,  as  though  it  had  revolted  from  the 
Whig  interest.  But,  whatever  this  natural  patch  may  seem  to 
insinuate,  it  is  well  known  that  her  notions  of  government  are 
still  the  same.  This  unlucky  mole,  however,  has  misled  several 
coxcombs,  and,  like  the  hanging  out  of  false  colors,  made  some 
of  them  converse  with  Rosalinda  in  what  they  thought  the 
spirit  of  her  party,  when  on  a  sudden  she  has  given  them  an 
unexpected  fire,  that  has  sunk  them  all  at  once.  If  Rosalinda 
is  unfortunate  in  her  mole,  Nigranilla  is  as  unhappy  in  a  pim- 
ple, which  forces  her,  against  her  inclinations,  to  patch  on  the 
Whig  side. 

I  am  told  that  many  virtuous  matrons,  who  formerly  have 
been  taught  to  believe  that  this  artificial  spotting  of  the  face 
was  unlawful,  are  now  reconciled,  by  a  zeal  for  their  cause,  to 
what  they  could  not  be  prompted  by  a  concern  for  their  beauty. 
This  way  of  declaring  war  upon  one  another  puts  me  in  mind 


THE   SPECTATOR  191 

of  what  is  reported  of  the  tigress,  that  several  spots  rise  in  her 
skin  when  she  is  angry;  or,  as  Mr.  Cowley  has  imitated  the 
verses  that  stand  as  the  motto  of  this  paper,  — 

She  swells  with  angry  pride, 
And  calls  forth  all  her  spots  on  every  side. 

When  I  was  in  the  theatre  the  time  above  mentioned,  I  had 
the  curiosity  to  count  the  patches  on  both  sides,  and  found  the 
Tory  patches  to  be  about  twenty  stronger  than  the  Whig;  but 
to  make  amends  for  this  small  inequality,  I  the  next  morning 
found  the  whole  puppet-show  filled  with  faces  spotted  after  the 
Whiggish  manner.  Whether  or  no  the  ladies  had  retreated 
hither  in  order  to  rally  their  forces,  I  cannot  tell;  but  the  next 
night  they  came  in  so  great  a  body  to  the  opera,  that  they  out- 
numbered the  enemy. 

This  account  of  party  patches  will,  I  am  afraid,  appear  im- 
probable to  those  who  live  at  a  distance  from  the  fashionable 
world;  but  as  it  is  a  distinction  of  a  very  singular  nature,  and 
what  perhaps  may  never  meet  with  a  parallel,  I  think  I  should 
not  have  discharged  the  office  of  a  faithful  Spectator,  had  I 
not  recorded  it. 

I  have,  in  former  papers,  endeavored  to  expose  this  party 
rage  in  women,  as  it  only  serves  to  aggravate  the  hatreds  and 
animosities  that  reign  among  men,  and  in  a  great  measure 
deprives  the  fair  sex  of  those  peculiar  charms  with  which  nature 
has  endowed  them. 

When  the  Romans  and  Sabines  were  at  war,  and  just  upon 
the  point  of  giving  battle,  the  women  who  were  allied  to  both 
of  them  interposed  with  so  many  tears  and  entreaties,  that 
they  prevented  the  mutual  slaughter  which  threatened  both 
parties,  and  united  them  together  in  a  firm  and  lasting  peace. 
I  would  recommend  this  noble  example  to  our  British  ladies, 
at  a  time  when  their  country  is  torn  with  so  many  unnatural 
divisions  that,  if  they  continue,  it  will  be  a  misfortune  to  be 
born  in  it.  The  Greeks  thought  it  so  improper  for  women  to 
interest  themselves  in  competitions  and  contentions,  that  for 
this  reason,  among  others,  they  forbade  them,  under  pain  of 
death,  to  be  present  at  the  Olympic  games,  notwithstanding 
these  were  the  public  diversions  of  all  Greece. 

As  our  English  women  excel  those  of  all  nations  in  beauty, 


i92  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

they  should  endeavor  to  outshine  them  in  all  other  accom- 
plishments proper  to  the  sex,  and  to  distinguish  themselves  as 
tender  mothers  and  faithful  wives,  rather  than  as  furious  parti- 
sans. Female  virtues  are  of  a  domestic  turn.  The  family  is  the 
proper  province  for  private  women  to  shine  in.  If  they  must 
be  showing  their  zeal  for  the  public,  let  it  not  be  against  those 
who  are  perhaps  of  the  same  family,  or  at  least  of  the  same 
religion  or  nation,  but  against  those  who  are  the  open,  pro- 
fessed, undoubted  enemies  of  their  faith,  liberty  and  country. 
When  the  Romans  were  pressed  with  a  foreign  enemy,  the 
ladies  voluntarily  contributed  all  their  rings  and  jewels  to 
assist  the  government  under  the  public  exigence,  which  ap- 
peared so  laudable  an  action  in  the  eyes  of  their  countrymen, 
that  from  thenceforth  it  was  permitted  by  a  law  to  pronounce 
public  orations  at  the  funeral  of  a  woman  in  praise  of  the 
deceased  person,  which  till  that  time  was  peculiar  to  men. 
Would  our  English  ladies,  instead  of  sticking  on  a  patch  against 
those  of  their  own  country,  show  themselves  so  truly  public- 
spirited  as  to  sacrifice  every  one  her  necklace  against  the  common 
enemy,  what  decrees  ought  not  to  be  made  in  favor  of  them? 

Since  I  am  recollecting  upon  this  subject  such  passages  as 
occur  to  my  memory  out  of  ancient  authors,  I  cannot  omit  a 
sentence  in  the  celebrated  funeral  oration  of  Pericles  which  he 
made  in  honor  of  those  brave  Athenians  that  were  slain  in  a 
fight  with  the  Lacedemonians.  After  having  addressed  himself 
to  the  several  ranks  and  orders  of  his  countrymen,  and  shown 
them  how  they  should  behave  themselves  in  the  public  cause, 
he  turns  to  the  female  part  of  his  audience:  "And  as  for  you," 
(says  he)  "I  shall  advise  you  in  very  few  words:  aspire  only 
to  those  virtues  that  are  peculiar  to  your  sex;  follow  your  natu- 
ral modesty,  and  think  it  your  greatest  commendation  not  to 
be  talked  of  one  way  or  other." 

No.  159.  SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  i,  1711 

Omnem,  qttce  nunc  obducta  tuenti 
Mortales  hebdat  visus  tibi,  et  humida  circum 
Caligat,  nubem  eripiam.  —  VIRG. 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo  I  picked  up  several  oriental 
manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among  others  I  met 


THE   SPECTATOR  I93 

with  one  entitled  "The  Visions  of  Mirzah,"  which  I  have  read 
over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the  public  when 
I  have  no  other  entertainment  for  them;  and  shall  begin  with 
the  first  vision,  which  I  have  translated  word  for  word  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed 
myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the 
high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  medi- 
tation and  prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the  tops  of 
the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on  the 
vanity  of  human  life;  and,  passing  from  one  thought  to  an- 
other, 'Surely,'  said  I,  'man  is  but  a  shadow  and  life  a  dream.' 
Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit 
of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered  one  in 
the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  musical  instrument  in  his  hand. 
As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to  play 
upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought 
into  a  variety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and 
altogether  different  from  anything  I  had  ever  heard.  They 
put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are  played  to  the 
departed  souls  of  good  men  upon  their  first  arrival  in  Paradise, 
to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  the  last  agonies,  and  qualify 
them  for  the  pleasures  of  that  happy  place.  My  heart  melted 
away  in  secret  raptures. 

"  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt 
of  a  genius,  and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with  music 
who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician  had 
before  made  himself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my  thoughts, 
by  those  transporting  airs  which  he  played,  to  taste  the  pleas- 
ures of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  aston- 
ished, he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand 
directed  me  to  approach  the  place  where  he  sat.  I  drew  near 
with  that  reverence  which  is  due  to  a  superior  nature;  and  as 
my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the  captivating  strains  I 
had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  genius  smiled 
upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability  that  famil- 
iarized him  to  my  imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all  the 
fears  and  apprehensions  with  which  I  approached  him.  He 
lifted  me  from  the  ground,  and,  taking  me  by  the  hand, 


i94  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

'Mirzah,'  said  he,  'I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies;  fol- 
low me.' 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and, 
placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  '  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,'  said  he, 
'and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.'  'I  see,'  said  I,  'a  huge  valley, 
and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.'  '  The  valley 
that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  the  vale  of  misery,  and  the  tide  of 
water  that  thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  tide  of  eternity.' 
'What  is  the  reason,'  said  I,  'that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a 
thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at 
the  other?'  'What  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  that  portion  of 
eternity  which  is  called  time,  measured  out  by  the  sun,  and 
reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consummation. 
Examine  now,'  said  he,  'this  sea  that  is  thus  bounded  with 
darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in  it.' 
'I  see  a  bridge,'  said  I,  'standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.' 
'The  bridge  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  human  life;  consider  it 
attentively.'  Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that 
it  consisted  of  threescore  and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several 
broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that  were  entire,  made 
up  the  number  about  an  hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the  arches 
the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at  first  of  a  thou- 
sand arches;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and 
left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  '  But 
tell  me  further,'  said  he,  'what  thou  discoverest  on  it.' 

"  'I  see  multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it,'  said  I,  'and  a 
black  cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it.'  As  I  looked  more  at- 
tentively, I  saw  several  of  the  passengers  dropping  through 
the  bridge,  into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it;  and, 
upon  further  examination,  perceived  there  were  innumerable 
trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the  bridge,  which  the  passen- 
gers no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell  through  them  into  the 
tide  and  immediately  disappeared.  These  hidden  pitfalls  were 
set  very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of 
people  no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud,  but  many  of  them 
fell  into  them.  They  grew  thinner  towards  the  middle,  but 
multiplied  and  lay  closer  together  towards  the  end  of  the 
arches  that  were  entire. 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons  —  but  their  number  was 
very  small  —  that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on 


THE   SPECTATOR  195 

the  broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another,  being 
quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful 
structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  presented. 
My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several  drop- 
ping unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity,  and  catch- 
ing at  everything  that  stood  by  them  to  save  themselves. 
Some  were  looking  up  towards  the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful 
posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation  stumbled  and  fell 
out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of 
bubbles  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and  danced  before  them, 
but  often,  when  they  thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of 
them,  their  footing  failed,  and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  con- 
fusion of  objects,  I  observed  some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands, 
and  others  with  urinals,  who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  bridge, 
thrusting  several  persons  on  trap-doors  which  did  not  seem 
to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might  have  escaped,  had 
they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

"The  genius,  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this  melancholy 
prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  '  Take  thine 
eyes  off  the  bridge/ said  he,  'and  tell  me  if  thouyet  seest  any  thing 
thou  dost  not  comprehend.'  Upon  looking  up,  'What  mean,' 
said  I,  '  those  great  flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hover- 
ing about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time? 
I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens,  cormorants;  and  among  many 
other  feathered  creatures  several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch 
in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle  arches.'  'These,'  said  the 
genius,  'are  envy,  avarice,  superstition,  despair,  love,  with  the 
like  cares  and  passions  that  infest  human  life.' 

"I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  'Alas,'  said  I,  'man  was  made 
in  vain!  how  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mortality!  tor- 
tured in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death!'  The  genius,  being 
moved  with  compassion  towards  me,  bid  me  quit  so  uncomfort- 
able a  prospect.  'Look  no  more,'  said  he,  'on  man  in  the  first 
stage  of  his  existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  eternity;  but  cast 
thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  sev- 
eral generations  of  mortals  that  fall  into  it.'  I  directed  my 
sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and  (whether  or  no  the  good  genius 
strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural  force,  or  dissipated  part 
of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  penetrate) 


196  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  further  end,  and  spreading 
forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant 
running  through  the  midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal 
parts.  The  clouds  still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that 
I  could  discover  nothing  in  it;  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a 
vast  ocean  planted  with  innumerable  islands,  that  were  covered 
with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little 
shining  seas  that  ran  among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed 
in  glorious  habits,  with  garlands  upon  their  heads,  passing 
among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  rest- 
ing on  beds  of  flowers;  and  could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of 
singing  birds,  falling  waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instru- 
ments.  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so  delight- 
ful a  scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly 
away  to  those  happy  seats;  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was  no 
passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw 
opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  '  The  islands,'  said  he, 
'that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  before  thee,  and  with  which  the 
whole  face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst 
see,  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore ;  there 
are  myriads  of  islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  discover- 
est,  reaching  further  than  thine  eye  or  even  thine  imagina- 
tion can  extend  itself.    These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men 
after  death,  who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue 
in  which  they  excelled,  are  distributed  among  these  several 
islands,  which  abound  with  pleasures  of  different  kinds  and 
degrees,  suitable  to  the  relishes  and  perfections  of  those  who  are 
settled  in  them;  every  island  is  a  paradise  accommodated  to 
its  respective  inhabitants.    Are  not  these,  O  Mirzah,  habita- 
tions worth  contending  for?   Does  life  appear  miserable,  that 
gives  thee  opportunities  of  earning  such  a  reward?   Is  death 
to  be  feared,  that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence? 
Think  not  man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity 
reserved  for  him.'  I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on  these 
happy  islands.  At  length  said  I, '  Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee, 
the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover 
the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant.'    The 
genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to  address  myself 
to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left  me;  I  then 
turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so  long  contem- 


THE   SPECTATOR  i97 

plating,  but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and 
the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of 
Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels  grazing  upon  the  sides 
of  it." 

The  end  of  the  first  vision  of  Mirzah. 

No.  267.'  SATURDAY,  JANUARY  5,  1712 

Cedite  Romani  scriptores,  cedite  Graii.  —  PROPERT. 

There  is  nothing  in  nature  more  irksome  than  general  dis- 
courses, especially  when  they  turn  chiefly  upon  words.  For 
this  reason  I  shall  waive  the  discussion  of  that  point  which  was 
started  some  years  since,  whether  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  may 
be  called  an  heroic  poem.  Those  who  will  not  give  it  that  title 
may  call  it,  if  they  please,  a  divine  poem.  It  will  be  sufficient 
to  its  perfection,  if  it  has  in  it  all  the  beauties  of  the  highest 
kind  of  poetry;  and  as  for  those  who  allege  it  is  not  an  heroic 
poem,  they  advance  no  more  to  the  diminution  of  it,  than  if 
they  should  say  Adam  is  not  ^Eneas,  nor  Eve  Helen. 

I  shall  therefore  examine  it  by  the  rules  of  epic  poetry,  and 
see  whether  it  falls  short  of  the  Iliad  or  Mneid  in  the  beauties 
which  are  essential  to  that  kind  of  writing.  The  first  thing  to 
be  considered  in  an  epic  poem  is  the  fable,  which  is  perfect  or 
imperfect,  according  as  the  action  which  it  relates  is  more 
or  less  so.  This  action  should  have  three  qualifications  in  it. 
First,  it  should  be  but  one  action;  secondly,  it  should  be  an 
entire  action;  and  thirdly,  it  should  be  a  great  action.  To  con- 
sider the  action  of  the  Iliad,  Mneid,  and  Paradise  Lost,  in  these 
three  several  lights.  Homer,  to  preserve  the  unity  of  his  action, 
hastens  into  the  midst  of  things,  as  Horace  has  observed.  Had 
he  gone  up  to  Leda's  egg,  or  begun  much  later,  even  at  the  rape 
of  Helen,  or  the  investing  of  Troy,  it  is  manifest  that  the  story 
of  the  poem  would  have  been  a  series  of  several  actions.  He 
therefore  opens  his  poem  with  the  discord  of  his  princes,  and 
artfully  interweaves,  in  the  several  succeeding  parts  of  it,  an 
account  of  everything  material  which  relates  to  them,  and  had 
passed  before  this  fatal  dissension.  After  the  same  manner 
/Eneas  makes  his  first  appearance  in  the  Tyrrhene  seas,  and 
within  sight  of  Italy,  because  the  action  proposed  to  be  cele- 

1  The  first  of  eighteen  papers  on  Paradise  Lost.  See  page  207,  below. 


198  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

brated  was  that  of  his  settling  himself  in  Latium.  But  because 
it  was  necessary  for  the  reader  to  know  what  had  happened  to 
him  in  the  taking  of  Troy,  and  in  the  preceding  parts  of  his 
voyage,  Virgil  makes  his  hero  relate  it  by  way  of  episode  in  the 
second  and  third  books  of  the  jEneid;  the  contents  of  both 
which  books  come  before  those  of  the  first  book  in  the  thread 
of  the  story,  though,  for  preserving  of  this  unity  of  action,  they 
follow  it  in  the  disposition  of  the  poem.  Milton,  in  imitation 
of  these  two  great  poets,  opens  his  Paradise  Lost  with  an  infer- 
nal council  plotting  the  fall  of  man,  which  is  the  action  he  pro~ 
posed  to  celebrate;  and  as  for  those  great  actions,  the  battle 
of  the  angels  and  the  creation  of  the  world  (which  preceded  in 
point  of  time,  and  which,  in  my  opinion,  would  have  entirely 
destroyed  the  unity  of  his  principal  action,  had  he  related  them 
in  the  same  order  that  they  happened),  he  cast  them  into  the 
fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  books,  by  way  of  episode  to  this  noble 
poem. 

Aristotle  himself  allows  that  Homer  has  nothing  to  boast  of 
as  to  the  unity  of  his  fable,  though  at  the  same  time  that  great 
critic  and  philosopher  endeavors  to  palliate  this  imperfection 
in  the  Greek  poet,  by  imputing  it  in  some  measure  to  the  very 
nature  of  an  epic  poem.  Some  have  been  of  opinion  that  the 
jEneid  also  labors  in  this  particular,  and  has  episodes  which 
may  be  looked  upon  as  excrescences  rather  than  as  parts  of  the 
action.  On  the  contrary,  the  poem  which  we  have  now  under 
our  consideration  hath  no  other  episodes  than  such  as  natu- 
rally arise  from  the  subject,  and  yet  is  filled  with  such  a  multi- 
tude of  astonishing  incidents,  that  it  gives  us  at  the  same  time 
a  pleasure  of  the  greatest  variety,  and  of  the  greatest  simplicity; 
uniform  in  its  nature,  though  diversified  in  the  execution. 

I  must  observe  also  that  as  Virgil,  in  the  poem  which  was 
designed  to  celebrate  the  original  of  the  Roman  empire,  has 
described  the  birth  of  its  great  rival,  the  Carthaginian  com- 
monwealth, Milton,  with  the  like  art,  in  his  poem  on  the  fall  of 
man  has  related  the  fall  of  those  angels  who  are  his  professed 
enemies.  Besides  the  many  other  beauties  in  such  an  episode, 
its  running  parallel  with  the  great  action  of  the  poem  hinders  it 
from  breaking  the  unity  so  much  as  another  episode  would  have 
done,  that  had  not  so  great  an  affinity  with  the  principal  sub- 
ject. In  short,  this  is  the  same  kind  of  beauty  which  the  critics 


THE  SPECTATOR  I99 

admire  in  The  Spanish  Friar  or  The  Double  Discovery,1  where 
the  two  different  plots  look  like  counterparts  and  copies  of  one 
another. 

The  second  qualification  required  in  the  action  of  an  epic 
poem  is  that  it  should  be  an  entire  action.  An  action  is  entire 
when  it  is  complete  in  all  its  parts;  or,  as  Aristotle  describes  it, 
when  it  consists  of  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  Nothing 
should  go  before  it,  be  intermixed  with  it,  or  follow  after  it 
that  is  not  related  to  it;  as,  on  the  contrary,  no  single  step 
should  be  omitted  in  that  just  and  regular  process  which  it 
must  be  supposed  to  take  from  its  original  to  its  consumma- 
tion. Thus  we  see  the  anger  of  Achilles  in  its  birth,  its  continu- 
ance, and  effects;  and  ^Eneas's  settlement  in  Italy,  carried  on 
through  all  the  oppositions  in  his  way  to  it  both  by  sea  and 
land.  The  action  in  Milton  excels  (I  think)  both  the  former  in 
this  particular;  we  see  it  contrived  in  hell,  executed  upon  earth, 
and  punished  by  Heaven.  The  parts  of  it  are  told  in  the  most 
distinct  manner,  and  grow  out  of  one  another  in  the  most  natu- 
ral order. 

The  third  qualification  of  an  epic  poem  is  its  greatness.  The 
anger  of  Achilles  was  of  such  consequence  that  it  embroiled 
the  kings  of  Greece,  destroyed  the  heroes  of  Asia,  and  engaged 
all  the  gods  in  factions.  The  settlement  of  ^neas  in  Italy  pro- 
duced the  Caesars,  and  gave  birth  to  the  Roman  empire.  Mil- 
ton's subject  was  still  greater  than  either  of  the  former;  it  does 
not  determine  the  fate  of  single  persons  or  nations,  but  of  a 
whole  species.  The  united  powers  of  hell  are  joined  together 
for  the  destruction  of  mankind,  which  they  effected  in  part, 
and  would  have  completed,  had  not  Omnipotence  itself  inter- 
posed. The  principal  actors  are  man  in  his  greatest  perfection, 
and  woman  in  her  highest  beauty.  Their  enemies  are  the  fallen 
angels;  the  Messiah  their  friend,  and  the  Almighty  their  pro- 
tector. In  short,  everything  that  is  great  in  the  whole  circle  of 
being,  whether  within  the  verge  of  nature  or  out  of  it,  has  a 
proper  part  assigned  it  in  this  admirable  poem. 

In  poetry,  as  in  architecture,  not  only  the  whole,  but  the 
principal  members,  and  every  part  of  them,  should  be  great. 
I  will  not  presume  to  say  that  the  book  of  games  in  the  ^Eneid, 
or  that  in  the  Iliad,  are  not  of  this  nature,  nor  to  reprehend 

1  By  Dryden. 


200  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

Virgil's  simile  of  a  top,  and  many  others  of  the  same  kind  in  the 
Iliad,  as  liable  to  any  censure  in  this  particular;  but  I  think 
we  may  say,  without  derogating  from  those  wonderful  per- 
formances, that  there  is  an  indisputable  and  unquestioned 
magnificence  in  every  part  of  Paradise  Lost,  and  indeed  a  much 
greater  than  could  have  been  formed  upon  any  pagan  system. 
But  Aristotle,  by  the  greatness  of  the  action,  does  not  only 
mean  that  it  should  be  great  in  its  nature,  but  also  in  its  dura- 
tion, or  in  other  words,  that  it  should  have  a  due  length  in  it, 
as  well  as  what  we  properly  call  greatness.  The  just  measure 
of  this  kind  of  magnitude  he  explains  by  the  following  simili- 
tude. An  animal  no  bigger  than  a  mite  cannot  appear  perfect 
to  the  eye,  because  the  sight  takes  it  in  at  once,  and  has  only 
a  confused  idea  of  the  whole,  and  not  a  distinct  idea  of  all  its 
parts;  if  on  the  contrary  you  should  suppose  an  animal  of  ten 
thousand  furlongs  in  length,  the  eye  would  be  so  filled  with  a 
single  part  of  it  that  it  could  not  give  the  mind  an  idea  of  the 
whole.   What  these  animals  are  to  the  eye,  a  very  short  or  a 
very  long  action  would  be  to  the  memory.    The  first  would  be, 
as  it  were,  lost  and  swallowed  up  by  it,  and  the  other  difficult 
to  be  contained  in  it.  Homer  and  Virgil  have  shown  their  prin- 
cipal art  in  this  particular;  the  action  of  the  Iliad,  and  that  of 
the  Mneid,  were  in  themselves  exceeding  short,  but  are  so 
beautifully  extended  and  diversified  by  the  invention  of  epi- 
sodes, and  the  machinery  of  gods,  with  the  like  poetical  orna- 
ments, that  they  make  up  an  agreeable  story,  sufficient  to 
employ  the  memory  without  overcharging  it.   Milton's  action 
is  enriched  with  such  variety  of  circumstances,  that  I  have 
taken  as  much  pleasure  in  reading  the  contents  of  his  books  as 
in  the  best  invented  story  I  ever  met  with.  It  is  possible  that 
the  traditions  on  which  the  Iliad  and  JEneid  were  built  had 
more  circumstances  in  them  than  the  history  of  the  fall  of  man, 
as  it  is  related  in  Scripture.  Besides,  it  was  easier  for  Homer 
and  Virgil  to  dash  the  truth  with  fiction,  as  they  were  in  no. 
danger  of  offending  the  religion  of  their  country  by  it.  But  as 
for  Milton,  he  had  not  only  a  very  few  circumstances  upon 
which  to  raise  his  poem,  but  was  also  obliged  to  proceed  with 
the  greatest  caution  in  everything  that  he  added  out  of  his 
own  invention.    And  indeed,  notwithstanding  all  the  restraints 
he  was  under,  he  has  filled  his  story  with  so  many  surprising 


THE  SPECTATOR  201 

incidents,  which  bear  so  close  an  analogy  with  what  is  delivered 
in  Holy  Writ,  that  it  is  capable  of  pleasing  the  most  delicate 
reader,  without  giving  offense  to  the  most  scrupulous. 

The  modern  critics  have  collected,  from  several  hints  in  the 
Iliad  and  ^Eneid,  the  space  of  time  which  is  taken  up  by  the 
action  of  each  of  those  poems;  but  as  a  great  part  of  Milton's 
story  was  transacted  in  regions  that  lie  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
sun  and  the  sphere  of  day,  it  is  impossible  to  gratify  the  reader 
with  such  a  calculation,  which  indeed  would  be  more  curious 
than  instructive;  none  of  the  critics,  either  ancient  or  modern, 
having  laid  down  rules  to  circumscribe  the  action  of  an  epic 
poem  with  any  determined  number  of  years,  days,  or  hours. 
But  of  this  more  particular  hereafter. 

No.  323.  TUESDAY,  MARCH  n,  1712 

Modo  vir,  modo  femina.  —  VIRG. 

The  Journal  l  with  which  I  presented  my  reader  on  Tuesday 
last,  has  brought  me  in  several  letters  with  accounts  of  many 
private  lives  cast  into  that  form.  I  have  the  Rake's  Journal,  the 
Sot's  Journal,  the  Whoremaster's  Journal,  and  among  several 
others  a  very  curious  piece,  entitled  The  Journal  of  a  Mohock. 
By  these  instances  I  find  that  the  intention  of  my  last  Tues- 
day's paper  has  been  mistaken  by  many  of  my  readers.  I  did 
not  design  so  much  to  expose  vice  as  idleness,  and  aimed  at 
those  persons  who  pass  away  their  time  rather  in  trifles  and 
impertinence  than  in  crimes  and  immoralities.  Offenses  of 
this  later  kind  are  not  to  be  dallied  with,  or  treated  in  so 
ludicrous  a  manner.  In  short,  my  journal  only  holds  up  folly 
to  the  light,  and  shows  the  disagreeableness  of  such  actions  as 
are  indifferent  in  themselves,  and  blamable  only  as  they  pro- 
ceed from  creatures  endowed  with  reason. 

My  following  correspondent,  who  calls  herself  Clarinda,  is 
such  a  journalist  as  I  require:  she  seems  by  her  letter  to  be 
placed  in  a  modish  state  of  indifference  between  vice  and 
virtue,  and  to  be  susceptible  of  either,  were  there  proper  pains 
taken  with  her.  Had  her  journal  been  filled  with  gallantries,  or 
such  occurrences  as  had  shown  her  wholly  divested  of  her 
natural  innocence,  notwithstanding  it  might  have  been  more 

1  The  "journal  of  a  citizen." 


202  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

pleasing  to  the  generality  of  readers,  I  should  not  have  pub- 
lished it;  but  as  it  is  only  the  picture  of  a  life  filled  with  a  fash- 
ionable kind  of  gaiety  and  laziness,  I  shall  set  down  five  days 
of  it,  as  I  have  received  it  from  the  hand  of  my  correspondent. 

DEAR  MR.  SPECTATOR,  —  You  having  set  your  readers  an  exercise  in 
one  of  your  last  week's  papers,  I  have  performed  mine  according  to  your 
orders,  and  herewith  send  it  you  enclosed.  You  must  know,  Mr.  Specta- 
tor, that  I  am  a  maiden  lady  of  a  good  fortune,  who  have  had  several 
matches  offered  me  for  these  ten  years  last  past,  and  have  at  present  warm 
applications  made  to  me  by  a  very  pretty  fellow.  As  I  am  at  my  own  dis- 
posal, I  come  up  to  town  every  winter,  and  pass  my  time  in  it  after  the 
manner  you  will  find  in  the  following  journal,  which  I  began  to  write  upon 
the  very  day  after  your  Spectator  upon  that  subject. 

TUESDAY  night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  one  in  the  morning  for  think- 
ing of  my  journal. 

WEDNESDAY.  From  Eight  till  Ten.  Drank  two  dishes  of  chocolate  in 
bed,  and  fell  asleep  after  them. 

From  Ten  to  Eleven.  Eat  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  drank  a  dish  of 
bohea,  read  the  Spectator. 

From  Eleven  to  One.  At  my  toilette ;  tried  a  new  head.  Gave  orders  for 
Veny  to  be  combed  and  washed.  Mem.  I  look  best  in  blue. 

From  One  till  half  an  hour  after  Two.  Drove  to  the  Change.  Cheapened 
a  couple  of  fans. 

Till  Four.  At  dinner.  Mem.  Mr.  Froth  passed  by  in  his  new  liveries. 

From  Four  to  Six.  Dressed,  paid  a  visit  to  old  Lady  Blithe  and  her 
sister,  having  before  heard  they  were  gone  out  of  town  that  day. 

From  Six  to  Eleven.  At  basset.  Mem.  Never  set  again  upon  the  ace  of 
diamonds. 

THURSDAY.  From  Eleven  at  night  to  Eight  in  the  morning.  Dreamed  that 
I  punted  to  Mr.  Froth. 

From  Eight  to  Ten.  Chocolate.  Read  two  acts  in  Aurengzebe  a-bed. 

From  Ten  to  Eleven.  Tea-table.  Sent  to  borrow  Lady  Faddle's  Cupid 
for  Veny.  Read  the  play-bills.  Received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Froth.  Mem. 
Locked  it  up  in  my  strong  box. 

Rest  of  the  morning.  Fontange,  the  tire-woman,  her  account  of  my 
Lady  Blithe's  wash.  Broke  a  tooth  in  my  little  tortoise-shell  comb.  Sent 
Frank  to  know  how  my  Lady  Hectic  rested  after  her  monkey's  leaping  out 
at  window.  Looked  pale.  Fontange  tells  me  my  glass  is  not  true.  Dressed 
by  Three. 

From  Three  to  Four.  Dinner  cold  before  I  sat  down. 

From  Four  to  Eleven.  Saw  company.  Mr.  Froth's  opinion  of  Milton. 
His  account  of  the  Mohocks.  His  fancy  for  a  pin-cushion.  Picture  in  the 
lid  of  his  snuff-box.  Old  Lady  Faddle  promises  me  her  woman  to  cut  my 
hair.  Lost  five  guineas  at  crimp. 

Twelve  o'clock  at  night.  Went  to  bed. 


THE  SPECTATOR  203 

FRIDAY.  Eight  in  the  morning.  A-bed.  Read  over  all  Mr.  Froth's  letters. 
Cupid  and  Veny. 

Ten  o'clock.  Stayed  within  all  day,  not  at  home. 

From  Ten  to  Twelve.  In  conference  with  my  mantuamaker.  Sorted  a 
suit  of  ribands.  Broke  my  blue  china  cup. 

From  Twelve  to  One.  Shut  myself  up  in  my  chamber,  practiced  Lady 
Betty  Modely's  skuttle. 

One  in  the  afternoon.  Called  for  my  flowered  handkerchief.  Worked  half 
a  violet  leaf  in  it.  Eyes  ached  and  head  out  of  order.  Threw  by  my  work, 
and  read  over  the  remaining  part  of  Aurengzebe. 

From  Three  to  Four.  Dined. 

From  Four  to  Twelve.  Changed  my  mind,  dressed,  went  abroad,  and 
played  at  crimp  till  midnight.  Found  Mrs.  Spitely  at  home.  Conversa- 
tion: Mrs.  Brillant's  necklace  false  stones.  Old  Lady  Loveday  going  to  be 
married  to  a  young  fellow  that  is  not  worth  a  groat.  Miss  Prue  gone  into 
the  country.  Tom  Townley  has  red  hair.  Mem.  Mrs.  Spitely  whispered 
in  my  ear  that  she  had  something  to  tell  me  about  Mr.  Froth ;  I  am  sure 
it  is  not  true. 

Between  Twelve  and  One.  Dreamed  that  Mr.  Froth  lay  at  my  feet,  and 
called  me  Indamora. 

SATURDAY.  Rose  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Sat  down  to  my 
toilette. 

From  Eight  to  Nine.  Shifted  a  patch  for  half  an  hour  before  I  could 
determine  it.  Fixed  it  above  my  left  eyebrow. 

From  Nine  to  Twelve.  Drank  my  tea,  and  dressed. 

From  Twelve  to  Two.  At  chapel.  A  great  deal  of  good  company.  Mem. 
The  third  air  in  the  new  opera.  Lady  Blithe  dressed  frightfully. 

From  Three  to  Four.  Dined.  Mrs.  Kitty  called  upon  me  to  go  to  the 
opera  before  I  was  risen  from  table. 

From  dinner  to  Six.  Drank  tea.  Turned  off  a  footman  for  being  rude 
to  Veny. 

Six  o'clock.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Froth  till  the  begin- 
ning of  the  second  act.  Mr.  Froth  talked  to  a  gentleman  in  a  black  wig. 
Bowed  to  a  lady  in  the  front  box.  Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend  clapped 
Nicolini  in  the  third  act.  Mr.  Froth  cried  out  "  Ancora."  Mr.  Froth  led 
me  to  my  chair.  I  think  he  squeezed  my  hand. 

Eleven  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Melancholy  dreams.  Methought  Nico- 
lini said  he  was  Mr.  Froth. 

SUNDAY.  Indisposed. 

MONDAY.  Eight  o'clock.  Waked  by  Miss  Kitty.  Aurengzebe  lay  upon 
the  chair  by  me.  Kitty  repeated  without  book  the  eight  best  lines  in  the 
play.  Went  in  our  mobs  to  the  dumb  man,  according  to  appointment. 
Told  me  that  my  lover's  name  began  with  a  G.  Mem.  The  conjurer  was 
within  a  letter  of  Mr.  Froth's  name,  etc. 

Upon  looking  back  into  this  my  journal,  I  find  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to 


204  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

know  whether  I  pass  my  time  well  or  ill;  and  indeed  never  thought  of 
considering  how  I  did  it,  before  I  perused  your  speculation  upon  that  sub- 
ject. I  scarce  find  a  single  action  in  these  five  days  that  I  can  thoroughly 
approve  of,  except  the  working  upon  the  violet  leaf,  which  I  am  resolved 
to  finish  the  first  day  I  am  at  leisure.  As  for  Mr.  Froth  and  Veny,  I  did 
not  think  they  took  up  so  much  of  my  time  and  thoughts  as  I  find  they 
do  upon  my  journal.  The  latter  of  them  I  will  turn  off  if  you  insist  upon 
it;  and  if  Mr.  Froth  does  not  bring  matters  to  a  conclusion  very  suddenly, 
I  will  not  let  my  life  run  away  in  a  dream. 

Your  humble  servant, 

CLARINDA. 

To  resume  one  of  the  morals  of  my  first  paper,  and  to  con- 
firm Clarinda  in  her  good  inclinations,  I  would  have  her  con- 
sider what  a  pretty  figure  she  would  make  among  posterity, 
were  the  history  of  her  whole  life  published  like  these  five  days 
of  it.  .  .  . 

No.  409.  THURSDAY,  JUNE  19,  1712 

MUSCBO  contingere  cuncla  lepore.  —  LUCR. 

Gratian  very  often  recommends  fine  taste  as  the  utmost  per- 
fection of  an  accomplished  man.  As  this  word  arises  very  often 
in  conversation,  I  shall  endeavor  to  give  some  account  of  it, 
and  to  lay  down  rules  how  we  may  know  whether  we  are  pos- 
sessed of  it,  and  how  we  may  acquire  that  fine  taste  of  writing 
which  is  so  much  talked  of  among  the  polite  world. 

Most  languages  make  use  of  this  metaphor,  to  express  that 
faculty  of  mind  which  distinguishes  all  the  most  concealed 
faults  and  nicest  perfections  in  writing.  We  may  be  sure  that 
this  metaphor  would  not  have  been  so  general  in  all  tongues, 
had  there  not  been  a  very  great  conformity  between  that  men- 
tal taste,  which  is  the  subject  of  this  paper,  and  that  sensitive 
taste  which  gives  us  a  relish  of  every  different  flavor  that  affects 
the  palate.  Accordingly  we  find  there  are  as  many  degrees  of 
refinement  in  the  intellectual  faculty  as  in  the  sense  which  is 
marked  out  by  this  common  denomination. 

I  knew  a  person  who  possessed  the  one  in  so  great  a  per- 
fection, that,  after  having  tasted  ten  different  kinds  of  tea, 
he  would  distinguish,  without  seeing  the  color  of  it,  the  par- 
ticular sort  which  was  offered  him;  and  not  only  so,  but  any 
two  sorts  of  them  that  were  mixed  together  in  an  equal  pro- 
portion. Nay,  he  has  carried  the  experiment  so  far  as,  upon 


THE  SPECTATOR  205 

tasting  the  composition  of  three  different  sorts,  to  name  the 
parcels  from  whence  the  three  several  ingredients  were  taken. 
A  man  of  a  fine  taste  in  writing  will  discern,  after  the  same 
manner,  not  only  the  general  beauties  and  imperfections  of  an 
author,  but  discover  the  several  ways  of  thinking  and  express- 
ing himself  which  diversify  him  from  all  other  authors,  with 
the  several  foreign  infusions  of  thought  and  language,  and  the 
particular  authors  from  whom  they  were  borrowed. 

After  having  thus  far  explained  what  is  generally  meant  by 
a  fine  taste  in  writing,  and  shown  the  propriety  of  the  meta- 
phor which  is  used  on  this  occasion,  I  think  I  may  define  it  to 
be  "that  faculty  of  the  soul  which  discerns  the  beauties  of  an 
author  with  pleasure,  and  the  imperfections  with  dislike."  If 
a  man  would  know  whether  he  is  possessed  of  this  faculty,  I 
would  have  him  read  over  the  celebrated  works  of  antiquity, 
which  have  stood  the  test  of  so  many  different  ages  and  coun- 
tries, or  those  works  among  the  moderns  which  have  the  sanc- 
tion of  the  politer  part  of  our  contemporaries.  If,  upon  the 
perusal  of  such  writings,  he  does  not  find  himself  delighted  in 
an  extraordinary  manner,  or  if,  upon  reading  the  admired 
passages  in  such  authors,  he  finds  a  coldness  and  indifference 
in  his  thoughts,  he  ought  to  conclude,  not  —  as  is  too  usual 
among  tasteless  readers  —  that  the  author  wants  those  per- 
fections which  have  been  admired  in  him,  but  that  he  himself 
wants  the  faculty  of  discovering  them. 

He  should,  in  the  second  place,  be  very  careful  to.  observe 
whether  he  tastes  the  distinguishing  perfections,  or  —  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  call  them  so  —  the  specific  qualities  of  the  author 
whom  he  peruses;  whether  he  is  particularly  pleased  with  Livy 
for  his  manner  of  telling  a  story,  with  Sallust  for  his  entering 
into  those  internal  principles  of  action  which  arise  from  the 
characters  and  manners  of  the  persons  he  describes,  or  with 
Tacitus  for  displaying  those  outward  motives  of  safety  and 
interest  which  gave  birth  to  the  whole  series  of  transactions 
which  he  relates. 

He  may  likewise  consider  how  differently  he  is  affected  by 
the  same  thought  which  presents  itself  in  a  great  writer,  from 
what  he  is  when  he  finds  it  delivered  by  a  person  of  an  ordinary 
genius;  for  there  is  as  much  difference  in  apprehending  a 
thought  clothed  in  Cicero's  language,  and  that  of  a  common 


2o6  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

author,  as  in  seeing  an  object  by  the  light  of  a  taper  or  by  the 
light  of  the  sun. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  lay  down  rules  for  the  acquirement  of 
such  a  taste  as  that  I  am  here  speaking  of.  The  faculty  must 
in  some  degree  be  born  with  us;  and  it  very  often  happens  that 
those  who  have  other  qualities  in  perfection  are  wholly  void  of 
this.  One  of  the  most  eminent  mathematicians  of  the  age  has 
assured  me  that  the  greatest  pleasure  he  took  in  reading  Virgil 
was  in  examining  ^Eneas's  voyage  by  the  map;  as  I  question 
not  but  many  a  modern  compiler  of  history  would  be  delighted 
with  little  more  in  that  divine  author  than  the  bare  matters  of 
fact. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  faculty  must  in  some  measure  be 
born  in  us,  there  are  several  methods  for  cultivating  and  im- 
proving it,  and  without  which  it  will  be  very  uncertain  and  of 
little  use  to  the  person  that  possesses  it.  The  most  natural 
method  for  this  purpose  is  to  be  conversant  among  the  writings 
of  the  most  polite  authors.  A  man  who  has  any  relish  for  fine 
writing  either  discovers  new  beauties,  or  receives  stronger 
impressions,  from  the  masterly  strokes  of  a  great  author,  every 
time  he  peruses  him;  besides  that  he  naturally  wears  himself 
into  the  same  manner  of  speaking  and  thinking. 

Conversation  with  men  of  a  polite  genius  is  another  method 
for  improving  our  natural  taste.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  of 
the  greatest  parts  to  consider  anything  in  its  whole  extent  and 
in  all  its  variety  of  lights.  Every  man,  besides  those  general 
observations  which  are  to  be  made  upon  an  author,  forms 
several  reflections  that  are  peculiar  to  his  own  manner  of 
thinking;  so  that  conversation  will  naturally  furnish  us  with 
hints  which  we  did  not  attend  to,  and  make  us  enjoy  other 
men's  parts  and  reflections,  as  well  as  our  own.  This  is  the 
best  reason  I  can  give  for  the  observation  which  several  have 
made,  that  men  of  great  genius  in  the  same  way  of  writing  sel- 
dom rise  up  singly,  but  at  certain  periods  of  time  appear 
together,  and  in  a  body;  as  they  did  at  Rome  in  the  reign  of 
Augustus,  and  in  Greece  about  the  age  of  Socrates.  I  cannot 
think  that  Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere,  Boileau,  La  Fontaine, 
Bruyere,  Bossuet,  or  the  Daciers,  would  have  written  so  well 
as  they  have  done,  had  they  not  been  friends  and  contempo- 
raries. 


THE  SPECTATOR  207 

It  is  likewise  necessary  for  a  man  who  would  form  to  himself 
a  finished  taste  of  good  writing,  to  be  well  versed  in  the  works 
of  the  best  critics,  both  ancient  and  modern.  I  must  confess 
that  I  could  wish  there  were  authors  of  this  kind,  who,  besides 
the  mechanical  rules,  which  a  man  of  very  little  taste  may  dis- 
course upon,  would  enter  into  the  very  spirit  and  soul  of  fine 
writing,  and  show  us  the  several  sources  of  that  pleasure  which 
rises  in  the  mind  upon  the  perusal  of  a  noble  work.  Thus, 
although  in  poetry  it  be  absolutely  necessary  that  the  unities 
of  time,  place,  and  action,  should  be  thoroughly  explained 
and  understood,  there  is  still  something  more  essential  to  the 
art,  something  that  elevates  and  astonishes  the  fancy,  and 
gives  a  greatness  of  mind  to  the  reader,  which  few  of  the  critics 
besides  Longinus  have  considered. 

Our  general  taste  in  England  is  for  epigram,  turns  of  wit,  and 
forced  conceits,  which  have  no  manner  of  influence  either  for 
the  bettering  or  enlarging  the  mind  of  him  who  reads  them, 
and  have  been  carefully  avoided  by  the  greatest  writers,  both 
among  the  ancients  and  moderns.  I  have  endeavored,  in  sev- 
eral of  my  speculations,  to  banish  this  Gothic  taste  which  has 
taken  possession  among  us.  I  entertained  the  town  for  a  week 
together  with  an  essay  upon  wit,  in  which  I  endeavored  to 
detect  several  of  those  false  kinds  which  have  been  admired 
in  the  different  ages  of  the  world,  and  at  the  same  time  to  show 
wherein  the  nature  of  true  wit  consists.  I  afterward  gave  an 
instance  of  the  great  force  which  lies  in  a  natural  simplicity 
of  thought  to  affect  the  mind  of  the  reader,  from  such  vulgar 
pieces  as  have  little  else  besides  this  single  qualification  to 
recommend  them.  I  have  likewise  examined  the  works  of  the 
greatest  poet  which  our  nation,  or  perhaps  any  other,  has  pro- 
duced, and  particularized  most  of  those  rational  and  manly 
beauties  which  give  a  value  to  that  divine  work.  1  shall  next 
Saturday  enter  upon  an  essay  on  "The  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,"  which,  though  it  shall  consider  that  subject  at 
large,  will  perhaps  suggest  to  the  reader  what  it  is  that  gives 
a  beauty  to  many  passages  of  the  finest  writers  both  in  prose 
and  verse.  As  an  undertaking  of  this  nature  is  entirely  new,  I 
question  not  but  it  will  be  received  with  candor. 


2o8  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

No.  419.*  TUESDAY,  JULY  i,  1712 

Mentis  gratissimus  error.  —  HOR. 

There  is  a  kind  of  writing  wherein  the  poet  quite  loses  sight 
of  nature,  and  entertains  his  reader's  imagination  with  the 
characters  and  actions  of  such  persons  as  have,  many  of  them, 
no  existence  but  what  he  bestows  on  them.  Such  are  fairies, 
witches,  magicians,  demons,  and  departed  spirits.  This  Mr. 
Dryden  calls  "the  fairy  way  of  writing,"  which  is  indeed  more 
difficult  than  any  other  that  depends  on  the  poet's  fancy, 
because  he  has  no  pattern  to  follow  in  it,  and  must  work  alto- 
gether out  of  his  own  invention.  . 

There  is  a  very  odd  turn  of  thought  required  for  this  sort  of 
writing,  and  it  is  impossible  for  a  poet  to  succeed  in  it  who  has 
not  a  particular  cast  of  fancy,  and  an  imagination  naturally 
fruitful  and  superstitious.  Besides  this,  he  ought  to  be  very 
well  versed  in  legends  and  fables,  antiquated  romances,  and 
the  traditions  of  nurses  and  old  women,  that  he  may  fall  in 
with  our  natural  prejudices,  and  humor  those  notions  which 
we  have  imbibed  in  our  infancy.  For  otherwise  he  will  be  apt 
to  make  his  fairies  talk  like  people  of  his  own  species,  and  not 
like  other  sets  of  beings,  who  converse  with  different  objects 
and  think  in  a  different  manner  from  that  of  mankind.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  say,  with  Mr.  Bayes  in  The  Rehearsal,  that  spirits  must 
not  be  confined  to  speak  sense,  but  it  is  certain  their  sense 
ought  to  be  a  little  discolored,  that  it  may  seem  particular,  and 
proper  to  the  person  and  condition  of  the  speaker. 

These  descriptions  raise  a  pleasing  kind  of  horror  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader,  and  amuse  his  imagination  with  the  strange- 
ness and  novelty  of  the  persons  who  are  represented  in  them. 
They  bring  up  into  our  memory  the  stories  we  have  heard  in 
our  childhood,  and  favor  those  secret  terrors  and  apprehen- 
sions to  which  the  mind  of  man  is  naturally  subject.  We  are 
pleased  with  surveying  the  different  habits  and  behaviors  of 
foreign  countries;  how  much  more  must  we  be  delighted  and 
surprised  when  we  are  led,  as  it  were,  into  a  new  creation,  and 
see  the  persons  and  manners  of  another  species!  Men  of  cold 
fancies  and  philosophical  dispositions  object  to  this  kind  of 
poetry,  that  it  has  not  probability  enough  to  affect  the  imagi- 

1  The  ninth  of  the  eleven  papers  on  "The  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination." 


THE  SPECTATOR  209 

nation.  But  to  this  it  may  be  answered  that  we  are  sure,  in 
general,  there  are  many  intellectual  beings  in  the  world  besides 
ourselves,  and  several  species  of  spirits,  who  are  subject  to 
different  laws  and  economies  from  those  of  mankind.  When 
we  see,  therefore,  any  of  these  represented  naturally,  we  can- 
not look  upon  the  representation  as  altogether  impossible;  nay, 
many  are  prepossessed  with  such  false  opinions  as  dispose  them 
to  believe  these  particular  delusions;  at  least  we  have  all  heard 
so  many  pleasing  relations  in  favor  of  them,  that  we  do  not 
care  for  seeing  through  the  falsehood,  and  willingly  give  our- 
selves up  to  so  agreeable  an  imposture. 

The  ancients  have  not  much  of  this  poetry  among  them; 
for,  indeed,  almost  the  whole  substance  of  it  owes  its  original 
to  the  darkness  and  superstition  of  later  ages,  when  pious 
frauds  were  made  use  of  to  amuse  mankind,  and  frighten  them 
into  a  sense  of  their  duty.  Our  forefathers  looked  upon  nature 
with  more  reverence  and  horror,  before  the  world  was  enlight- 
ened by  learning  and  philosophy,  and  loved  to  astonish  them- 
selves with  the  apprehensions  of  witchcraft,  prodigies,  charms, 
and  enchantments.  There  was  not  a  village  in  England  that 
had  not  a  ghost  in  it;  the  churchyards  were  all  haunted;  every 
large  common  had  a  circle  of  fairies  belonging  to  it;  and  there 
was  scarce  a  shepherd  to  be  met  with  who  had  not  seen  a  spirit. 
Among  all  the  poets  of  this  kind  our  English  are  much  the 
best,  by  what  I  have  yet  seen;  whether  it  be  that  we  abound 
with  more  stories  of  this  nature,  or  that  the  genius  of  our  coun- 
try is  fitter  for  this  sort  of  poetry.  For  the  English  are  naturally 
fanciful,  and  very  often  disposed,  by  that  gloominess  and  mel- 
ancholy of  temper  which  is  so  frequent  in  our  nation,  to  many 
wild  notions  and  visions  to  which  others  are  not  so  liable. 
Among  the  English,  Shakespeare  has  incomparably  excelled  all 
others.  That  noble  extravagance  of  fancy,  which  he  had  in  so 
great  perfection,  thoroughly  qualified  him  to  touch  this  weak 
superstitious  part  of  his  reader's  imagination,  and  made  him 
capable  of  succeeding  where  he  had  nothing  to  support  him 
besides  the  strength  of  his  own  genius.  There  is  something  so 
wild,  and  yet  so  solemn,  in  the  speeches  of  his  ghosts,  fairies, 
witches,  and  the  like  imaginary  persons,  that  we  cannot  for- 
bear thinking  them  natural,  though  we  have  no  rule  by  which 
to  judge  of  them,  and  must  confess,  if  there  are  such  beings  in 


210  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

the  world,  it  looks  highly  probable  they  should  talk  and  act 
as  he  has  represented  them. 

There  is  another  sort  of  imaginary  beings  that  we  some- 
times meet  with  among  the  poets,  when  the  author  represents 
any  passion,  appetite,  virtue,  or  vice  under  a  visible  shape, 
and  makes  it  a  person  or  an  actor  in  his  poem.  Of  this  nature 
are  the  descriptions  of  Hunger  and  Envy  in  Ovid,  of  Fame  in 
Virgil,  and  of  Sin  and  Death  in  Milton.  We  find  a  whole  crea- 
tion of  the  like  shadowy  persons  in  Spenser,  who  had  an 
admirable  talent  in  representations  of  this  kind.  I  have  dis- 
coursed of  these  emblematical  persons  in  former  papers,  and 
shall  therefore  only  mention  them  in  this  place. 

Thus  we  see  how  many  ways  poetry  addresses  itself  to  the 
imagination,  as  it  has  not  only  the  whole  circle  of  nature  for  its 
province,  but  makes  new  worlds  of  its  own,  shows  us  persons 
who  are  not  to  be  found  in  being,  and  represents  even  the  fac- 
ulties of  the  soul,  with  the  several  virtues  and  vices,  in  a  sen- 
sible shape  and  character. 


JOHN   DENNIS 

ON  THE  GENIUS  AND  WRITINGS  OF 
SHAKESPEARE 

1712 

[The  following  is  from  the  first  of  three  letters  written  by  Dennis  in 
February,  1711,  in  connection  with  a  new  version  he  had  made  of  Shake- 
speare's Coriolanus  (called  The  Invader  of  his  Country).  The  letters  were 
published  in  1712,  under  the  title  An  Essay  on  the  Genius,  etc.,  together 
with  two  other  letters  attacking  some  of  Addison's  papers  in  the  Spec- 
tator. The  main  theme  of  the  letters  on  Shakespeare  is  his  want  of  learn- 
ing; to  the  modern  student  a  matter  of  especial  interest  is  Dennis's  dis- 
cussion of  the  doctrine  of  poetic  justice.  Addison  attacked  this  doctrine 
in  No.  40  of  the  Spectator;  see  the  passage  on  p.  174  above.] 

.  .  .  SHAKESPEARE  was  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  that  the 
world  e'er  saw  for  the  tragic  stage.  Though  he  lay  under  greater 
disadvantages  than  any  of  his  successors,  yet  had  he  greater 
and  more  genuine  beauties  than  the  best  and  greatest  of  them. 
And  what  makes  the  brightest  glory  of  his  character,  those 
beauties  were  entirely  his  own,  and  owing  to  the  force  of  his 
own  nature;  whereas  his  faults  were  owing  to  his  education, 
and  to  the  age  that  he  lived  in.  One  may  say  of  him  as  they 
did  of  Homer,  that  he  had  none  to  imitate,  and  is  himself 
inimitable.  His  imaginations  were  often  as  just  as  they  were 
bold  and  strong.  He  had  a  natural  discretion  which  never 
could  have  been  taught  him,  and  his  judgment  was  strong  and 
penetrating.  He  seems  to  have  wanted  nothing  but  time  and 
leisure  for  thought,  to  have  found  out  those  rules  of  which  he 
appears  so  ignorant.  His  characters  are  always  drawn  justly, 
exactly,  graphically,  except  where  he  failed  by  not  knowing 
history  or  the  poetical  art.  He  has  for  the  most  part  more 
fairly  distinguished  them  than  any  of  his  successors  have  done, 
who  have  falsified  them  or  confounded  them  by  making  love 
the  predominant  quality  in  all.  He  had  so  fine  a  talent  for 
touching  the  passions,  and  they  are  so  lively  in  him,  and  so 
truly  in  nature,  that  they  often  touch  us  more  without  their 
due  preparations  than  those  of  other  tragic  poets  who  have  all 


212  JOHN  DENNIS 

the  beauty  of  design  and  all  the  advantage  of  incidents.  His 
master  passion  was  terror,  which  he  has  often  moved  so  power- 
fully and  so  wonderfully  that  we  may  justly  conclude  that, 
if  he  had  had  the  advantage  of  art  and  learning,  he  would  have 
surpassed  the  very  best  and  strongest  of  the  ancients.  His 
paintings  are  often  so  beautiful  and  so  lively,  so  graceful  and 
so  powerful,  especially  where  he  uses  them  in  order  to  move 
terror,  that  there  is  nothing  perhaps  more  accomplished  in  our 
English  poetry.  His  sentiments  for  the  most  part,  in  his  best 
tragedies,  are  noble,  generous,  easy,  and  natural,  and  adapted 
to  the  persons  who  use  them.  His  expression  is  in  many  places 
good  and  pure  after  a  hundred  years;  simple  though  elevated, 
graceful  though  bold,  and  easy  though  strong.  He  seems  to 
have  been  the  very  original  of  our  English  tragical  harmony, 
-  that  is,  the  harmony  of  blank  verse,  diversified  often  by 
dissyllable  and  trisyllable  terminations.  For  that  diversity 
distinguishes  it  from  heroic  harmony,  and,  bringing  it  nearer 
to  common  use,  makes  it  more  proper  to  gain  attention,  and 
more  fit  for  action  and  dialogue.  Such  verse  we  make  when 
we  are  writing  prose;  we  make  such  verse  in  common  conversa- 
tion. 

If  Shakespeare  had  these  great  qualities  by  nature,  what 
would  he  not  have  been  if  he  had  joined  to  so  happy  a  genius 
learning  and  the  poetical  art?  For  want  of  the  latter,  our 
author  has  sometimes  made  gross  mistakes  in  the  characters 
which  he  has  drawn  from  history,  against  the  equality  and  con- 
veniency  of  manners  of  his  dramatical  persons.  Witness  Mene- 
nius  in  the  following  tragedy,  whom  he  has  made  an  errant 
buffoon,  which  is  a  great  absurdity.  For  he  might  as  well  have 
imagined  a  grave  majestic  jack-pudding,  as  a  buffoon  in  a 
Roman  senator.  Aufidius,  the  general  of  the  Volscians,  is 
shown  a  base  and  a  profligate  villain.  He  has  offended  against 
the  equality  of  the  manners  even  in  his  hero  himself.  For 
Coriolanus,  who  in  the  first  part  of  the  tragedy  is  shown  so 
open,  so  frank,  so  violent,  and  so  magnanimous,  is  represented 
in  the  latter  part  by  Aufidius  —  which  is  contradicted  by  no 
one  —  a  flattering,  fawning,  cringing,  insinuating  traitor. 

For  want  of  this  poetical  art,  Shakespeare  has  introduced 
things  into  his  tragedies  which  are  against  the  dignity  of  that 
noble  poem,  as  the  rabble  in  Julius  Ccesar  and  that  in  Corio- 


THE   GENIUS  OF  SHAKESPEARE  213 

lanus;  though  that  in  Coriolanus  offends  not  only  against  the 
dignity  of  tragedy,  but  against  the  truth  of  history  likewise, 
and  the  customs  of  ancient  Rome,  and  the  majesty  of  the 
Roman  people,  as  we  shall  have  occasion  to  show  anon. 

For  want  of  this  art,  he  has  made  his  incidents  less  moving, 
less  surprising,  and  less  wonderful.  He  has  been  so  far  from 
seeking  those  fine  occasions  to  move  with  which  an  action  fur- 
nished according  to  art  would  have  furnished  him,  that  he  seems 
rather  to  have  industriously  avoided  them.  He  makes  Corio- 
lanus, upon  his  sentence  of  banishment,  take  his  leave  of  his 
wife  and  his  mother  out  of  sight  of  the  audience,  and  so  has  pur- 
posely, as  it  were,  avoided  a  great  occasion  to  move. 

If  we  are  willing  to  allow  that  Shakespeare,  by  sticking  to 
the  bare  events  of  history,  has  moved  more  than  any  of.  his 
successors,  yet  his  just  admirers  must  confess  that  if  he  had 
had  the  poetical  art  he  would  have  moved  ten  times  more. 
For  't  is  impossible  that  by  a  bare  historical  play  he  could 
move  so  much  as  he  would  have  done  by  a  fable. 

We  find  that  a  romance  entertains  the  generality  of  mankind 
with  more  satisfaction  than  history,  if  they  read  only  to  be 
entertained;  but  if  they  read  history  through  pride  or  ambi- 
tion, they  bring  their  passions  along  with  them,  and  that  alters 
the  case.  Nothing  is  more  plain  than  that  even  in  an  historical 
relation  some  parts  of  it,  and  some  events,  please  more  than 
others.  And  therefore  a  man  of  judgment,  who  sees  why  they 
do  so,  may,  in  forming  a  fable  and  disposing  an  action,  please 
more  than  an  historian  can  do.  For  the  just  fiction  of  a  fable 
moves  us  more  than  an  historical  relation  can  do,  for  the  two 
following  reasons.  First,  by  reason  of  the  communication  and 
mutual  dependence  of  its  parts.  For  if  passion  springs  from 
motion,  then  the  obstruction  of  that  motion  or  a  counter 
motion  must  obstruct  and  check  the  passion;  and  therefore 
an  historian,  and  a  writer  of  historical  plays,  passing  from 
events  of  one  nature  to  events  of  another  nature  without  a 
due  preparation,  must  of  necessity  stifle  and  confound  one 
passion  by  another.  The  second  reason  why  the  fiction  of  a 
fable  pleases  us  more  than  an  historical  relation  can  do,  is,  be- 
cause in  an  historical  relation  we  seldom  are  acquainted  with 
the  true  causes  of  events,  whereas  in  a  feigned  action  which 
is  duly  constituted  —  that  is,  which  has  a  just  beginning  — 


214  JOHN  DENNIS 

those  causes  always  appear.  For  't  is  observable  that,  both  in 
a  poetical  fiction  and  an  historical  relation,  those  events  are 
the  most  entertaining,  the  most  surprising,  and  the  most  won- 
derful, in  which  Providence  most  plainly  appears.  And  'tis 
for  this  reason  that  the  author  of  a  just  fable  must  please 
more  than  the  writer  of  an  historical  relation.  The  good 
must  never  fail  to  prosper,  and  the  bad  must  always  be  pun- 
ished; otherwise  the  incidents,  and  particularly  the  cata- 
strophe which  is  the  grand  incident,  are  liable  to  be  imputed 
rather  to  chance  than  to  almighty  conduct  and  to  sovereign  jus- 
tice. The  want  of  this  impartial  distribution  of  justice  makes 
the  Coriolanus  of  Shakespeare  to  be  without  moral.  'T  is  true, 
indeed,  Coriolanus  is  killed  by  those  foreign  enemies  with 
whom  he  had  openly  sided  against  his  country,  which  seems 
to  be  an  event  worthy  of  Providence,  and  would  look  as  if  it 
were  contrived  by  infinite  wisdom,  and  executed  by  supreme 
justice,  to  make  Coriolanus  a  dreadful  example  to  all  who  lead 
on  foreign  enemies  to  the  invasion  of  their  native  country,  if 
there  were  not  something  in  the  fate  of  the  other  characters 
which  gives  occasion  to  doubt  of  it,  and  which  suggests  to  the 
skeptical  reader  that  this  might  happen  by  accident.  For 
Aufidius,  the  principal  murderer  of  Coriolanus,  who  in  cold 
blood  gets  him  assassinated  by  ruffians,  instead  of  leaving  him 
to  the  law  of  the  country  and  the  justice  of  the  Volscian  senate, 
and  who  commits  so  black  a  crime  not  by  any  erroneous  zeal 
or  a  mistaken  public  spirit,  but  through  jealousy,  envy,  and 
inveterate  malice,  —  this  assassinator  not  only  survives,  and 
survives  unpunished,  but  seems  to  be  rewarded  for  so  detest- 
able an  action  by  engrossing  all  those  honors  to  himself  which 
Coriolanus  before  had  shared  with  him.  .  .  . 

But  indeed  Shakespeare  has  been  wanting  in  the  exact  dis- 
tribution of  poetical  justice  not  only  in  his  Coriolanus,  but  in 
most  of  his  best  tragedies,  in  which  the  guilty  and  the  inno- 
cent perish  promiscuously;  as  Duncan  and  Banquo  in  Macbeth, 
as  likewise  Lady  Macduff  and  her  children;  Desdemona  in 
Othello;  Cordelia,  Kent,  and  King  Lear,  in  the  tragedy  that 
bears  his  name;  Brutus  and  Portia  in  Julius  Catsar;  and  young 
Hamlet  in  the  tragedy  of  Hamlet.  For  though  it  may  be  said 
in  defense  of  the  last,  that  Hamlet  had  a  design  to  kill  his  uncle 
who  then  reigned,  yet  this  is  justified  by  no  less  than  a  call 


REMARKS   UPON   CATO  215 

from  heaven,  and  raising  up  one  from  the  dead  to  urge  him  to 
it.  The  good  and  the  bad,  then,  perishing  promiscuously  in  the 
best  of  Shakespeare's  tragedies,  there  can  be  either  none  or 
very  weak  instruction  in  them;  for  such  promiscuous  events 
call  the  government  of  Providence  into  question,  and  by 
skeptics  and  libertines  are  resolved  into  chance.  I  humbly  con- 
ceive, therefore,  that  this  want  of  dramatical  justice  in  the 
tragedy  of  Coriolanus  gave  occasion  for  a  just  alteration,  and 
that  I  was  obliged  to  sacrifice  to  that  justice  Aufidius  and  the 
tribunes,  as  well  as  Coriolanus. 

Thus  have  we  endeavored  to  show  that,  for  want  of  the 
poetical  art,  Shakespeare  lay  under  very  great  disadvantages. 
At  the  same  time  we  must  own  to  his  honor  that  he  has  often 
performed  wonders  without  it,  in  spite  of  the  judgment  of  so 
great  a  man  as  Horace :  — 

Natura  fieret  laudabile  carmen,  an  arte, 
QiHzsitum  est :  ego  nee  studium  sine  divite  vena, 
Nee  rude  quid  prosit  video  ingenium;  allerius  sic 
Alter  a  poscit  opem  res,  et  conjurat  amice.1 

But  from  this  very  judgment  of  Horace  we  may  justly  con- 
clude that  Shakespeare  would  have  wonderfully  surpassed 
himself,  if  art  had  been  joined  to  nature.  .  .  . 


REMARKS  UPON  CATO 

1713 

[The  pamphlet  from  which  the  following  extract  is  taken  is  one  of 
several  connected  with  a  prolonged  quarrel  involving  Addison,  Dennis, 
and  others,  which  began  in  1711.  Addison's  Cato  was  produced  in  April, 
1713  (see  the  accountgiven  by  Colley  Gibber, page  271  below).  It  was  char- 
acterized in  particular  by  the  unusual  effort  to  carry  out  the  old  rule  of 
"unity  of  place";  and  Dennis  seized  upon  the  resulting  improbabilities 
as  an  opportunity  to  vent  his  rage,  both  personal  and  critical,  upon  the 
dramatist.  The  passages  here  reproduced  are  also  quoted,  with  com- 
ments, in  Dr.  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison. J 

.  .  .  UPON  the  departure  of  Portius,  Sempronius  makes  but 
one  soliloquy,  and  immediately  in  comes  Syphax,  and  then  the 

1  "Inquiry  has  been  made  whether  the  praiseworthy  poem  is  the  product  of  nature  or 
art;  for  my  part,  T  do  not  see  what  advantage  there  is  either  in  unpolished  talent  or  in 
study  without  a  rich  natural  vein,  —  so  the  one  demands  the  aid  of  the  other,  and  enters 
into  friendly  conspiracy  with  it." 


216  JOHN  DENNIS 

two  politicians  are  at  it  immediately.  They  lay  their  heads 
together,  with  their  snuff-boxes  in  their  hands,  as  Mr.  Bayes 
has  it,  and  feague  it  away.  But,  in  the  midst  of  that  wise  scene, 
Syphax  seems  to  give  a  seasonable  caution  to  Sempronius:  — 

But  is  it  true,  Sempronius,  that  your  senate 

Is  called  together?  Gods!  thou  must  be  cautious; 

Cato  has  piercing  eyes. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  caution  shown  indeed,  in  meeting 
in  a  governor's  own  hall  to  carry  on  their  plot  against  him. 
Whatever  opinion  they  have  of  his  eyes,  I  suppose  they  have 
none  of  his  ears,  or  they  would  never  have  talked  at  this  foolish 
rate  so  near. 

Gods!  thou  must  be  cautious! 

Oh  yes!  very  cautious;  for  if  Cato  should  overhear  you,  and 
turn  you  off  for  politicians,  Caesar  would  never  take  you;  no, 
Caesar  would  never  take  you. 

When  Cato  (Act  II)  turns  the  senators  out  of  the  hall, 
upon  pretence  of  acquainting  Juba  with  the  result  of  their 
debates,  he  appears  to  me  to  do  a  thing  which  is  neither  reason- 
able nor  civil.  Juba  might  certainly  have  better  been  made 
acquainted  with  the  result  of  that  debate  in  some  private 
apartment  of  the  place.  But  the  poet  was  driven  upon  this 
absurdity  to  make  way  for  another;  and  that  is,  to  give  Juba 
an  opportunity  to  demand  Marcia  of  her  father.  But  the  quar- 
rel and  rage  of  Juba  and  Syphax,  in  the  same  act;  the  invect- 
ives of  Syphax  against  the  Romans  and  Cato;  the  advice  that 
he  gives  Juba,  in  her  father's  hall,  to  bear  away  Marcia  by 
force;  and  his  brutal  and  clamorous  rage  upon  his  refusal,  and 
at  a  time  when  Cato  was  scarcely  out  of  sight,  and  perhaps 
not  out  of  hearing,  —  at  least  some  of  his  guards  or  domestics 
must  necessarily  be  supposed  to  be  within  hearing,  —  is  a 
thing  that  is  so  far  from  being  probable  that  it  is  hardly 
possible. 

Sempronius,  in  the  second  act,  comes  back  once  more  in  the 
same  morning  to  the  governor's  hall,  to  carry  on  the  con- 
spiracy with  Syphax  against  the  governor,  his  country,  and  his 
family;  which  is  so  stupid  that  it  is  below  the  wisdom  of  the 

O 's,  the  Mac's,  and  the  Teague's;  even  Eustace  Com- 

mins  himself  would  never  have  gone  to  Justice  Hall,  to  have 


REMARKS   UPON   CATO  217 

conspired  against  the  government.  If  officers  at  Portsmouth 
should  lay  their  heads  together,  in  order  to  the  carrying  off 

J G 's l  niece  or  daughter,  would  they  meet  in  J— 

G—  -'s  hall  to  carry  on  that  conspiracy?  There  would  be  no 
necessity  for  their  meeting  there,  at  least  till  they  came  to  the 
execution  of  their  plot,  because  there  would  be  other  places 
to  meet  in.  There  would  be  no  probability  that  they  should 
meet  there,  because  there  would  be  places  more  private  and 
more  commodious.  Now  there  ought  to  be  nothing  in  a  tragi- 
cal action  but  what  is  necessary  or  probable. 

But  treason  is  not  the  only  thing  that  is  carried  on  in  this 
hall.  That,  and  love,  and  philosophy  take  their  turns  in  it, 
without  any  manner  of  necessity  or  probability  occasioned  by 
the  action,  as  duly  and  regularly,  without  interrupting  one 
another,  as  if  there  were  a  triple  league  between  them,  and  a 
mutual  agreement  that  each  should  give  place  to  and  make  way 
for  the  other,  in  a  due  and  orderly  succession. 

We  now  come  to  the  third  act.  Sempronius,  in  this  act, 
comes  into  the  governor's  hall,  with  the  leaders  of  the  mutiny; 
but,  as  soon  as  Cato  is  gone,  Sempronius,  who  but  just  before 
had  acted  like  an  unparalleled  knave,  discovers  himself,  like 
an  egregious  fool,  to  be  an  accomplice  in  the  conspiracy. 

Know,  villains,  when  such  paltry  slaves  presume 
To  mix  in  treason,  if  the  plot  succeeds, 
They're  thrown  neglected  by;  but,  if  it  fails, 
They  're  sure  to  die  like  dogs,  as  you  shall  do. 
Here,  take  these  factious  monsters,  drag  them  forth 
To  sudden  death. 

'Tis  true,  indeed,  the  second  leader  says,  there  are  none 
there  but  friends;  but  is  that  possible  at  such  a  juncture?  Can 
a  parcel  of  rogues  attempt  to  assassinate  the  governor  of  a 
town  of  war,  in  his  own  house,  in  mid-day?  and,  after  they  are 
discovered  and  defeated,  can  there  be  none  near  them  but 
friends?  Is  it  not  plain  from  these  words  of  Sempronius,  — 

Here,  take  these  factious  monsters,  drag  them  forth 
To  sudden  death,  — 

and  from  the  entrance  of  the  guards  upon  the  word  of  com- 
mand, that  those  guards  were  within  earshot?   Behold  Sem- 

1  That  is.  Sir  John  Gibson,  Lieutenant  Governor  of  Portsmouth. 


218  JOHN  DENNIS 

pronius  then  palpably  discovered.  How  comes  it  to  pass,  then, 
that  instead  of  being  hanged  up  with  the  rest,  he  remains 
secure  in  the  governor's  hall,  and  there  carries  on  his  conspiracy 
against  the  government,  the  third  time  in  the  same  day,  with 
his  old  comrade  Syphax,  who  enters  at  the  same  tune  that  the 
guards  are  carrying  away  the  leaders,  big  with  the  news  of  the 
defeat  of  Sempronius?- — though  where  he  had  his  intelligence 
so  soon  is  difficult  to  imagine.  .  .  . 

But  now  let  us  lay  before  the  reader  that  part  of  the  scenery 
of  the  fourth  act  which  may  show  the  absurdities  which  the  au- 
thor has  run  into  through  the  indiscreet  observance  of  the  unity 
of  place.  I  do  not  remember  that  Aristotle  has  said  anything 
expressly  concerning  the  unity  of  place.  'Tis  true,  implicitly 
he  has  said  enough  in  the  rules  which  he  has  laid  down  for  the 
chorus.  For,  by  making  the  chorus  an  essential  part  of  tra- 
gedy, and  by  bringing  it  on  the  stage  immediately  after  the  open- 
ing of  the  scene,  and  retaining  it  till  the  very  catastrophe,  he 
has  so  determined  and  fixed  the  place  of  action  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  an  author  on  the  Grecian  stage  to  break  through 
that  unity.  I  am  of  opinion  that  if  a  modern  tragic  poet  can 
preserve  the  unity  of  place  without  destroying  the  probability 
of  the  incidents,  'tis  always  best  for  him  to  do  it;  because,  by  the 
preserving  of  that  unity,  as  we  have  taken  notice  above,  he  adds 
grace  and  clearness  and  comeliness  to  the  representation.  But 
since  there  are  no  express  rules  about  it,  and  we  are  under  no 
compulsion  to  keep  it,  since  we  have  no  chorus  as  the  Grecian 
poet  had,  if  it  cannot  be  preserved  without  rendering  the 
greater  part  of  the  incidents  unreasonable  and  absurd,  and  per- 
haps sometimes  monstrous, 'tis  certainly  better  to  break  it.  .  .  . 

But  now  let  us  sum  up  all  these  absurdities  together.  Sem- 
pronius  goes  at  noonday,  in  Juba's  clothes  and  with  Juba's 
guards,  to  Cato's  palace,  in  order  to  pass  for  Juba,  in  a  place 
where  they  were  both  so  very  well  known;  he  meets  Juba  there, 
and  resolves  to  murder  him  with  his  own  guards.  Upon  the 
guards  appearing  a  little  bashful,  he  threatens  them:  — 

Hah!  Dastards,  do  you  tremble! 

Or  act  like  men,  or,  by  yon  azure  heaven  — 

But  the  guards  still  remaining  restive,  Sempronius  himself 
attacks  Juba,  while  each  of  the  guards  is  representing  Mr. 


REMARKS   UPON   CATO  219 

Spectator's  sign  of  the  Gaper,  awed,  it  seems,  and  terrified  by 
Sempronius's  threats.  Juba  kills  Sempronius,  and  takes  his  own 
army  prisoners,  and  carries  them  in  triumph  away  to  Cato. 
Now  I  would  fain  know  if  any  part  of  Mr.  Bayes's  tragedy l  is 
so  full  of  absurdity  as  this? 

Upon  hearing  the  clash  of  swords,  Lucia  and  Marcia  come  in. 
The  question  is,  why  no  men  come  in  upon  hearing  the  noise  of 
swords  in  the  governor's  hall?  Where  was  the  governor  him- 
self? Where  were  his  guards?  Where  were  his  servants?  Such 
an  attempt  as  this,  so  near  the  person  of  a  governor  of  a  place 
of  war,  was  enough  to  alarm  the  whole  garrison;  and  yet,  for 
almost  half  an  hour  after  Sempronius  was  killed,  we  find  none  of 
those  appear  who  were  the  likeliest  in  the  world  to  be  alarmed; 
and  the  noise  of  swords  is  made  to  draw  only  two  poor  women 
thither,  who  were  most  certain  to  run  away  from  it.  Upon  Lucia 
and  Marcia's  coming  in,  Lucia  appears  in  all  the  symptoms  of 
an  hysterical  gentlewoman:  — 

Sure  't  was  the  clash  of  swords!  my  troubled  heart 
Is  so  cast  down,  and  sunk  amidst  its  sorrows, 
It  throbs  with  fear,  and  aches  at  every  sound1 

And  immediately  her  old  whimsy  returns  upon  her:  — 

0  Marcia,  should  thy  brothers,  for  my  sake  — 

1  die  away  with  horror  at  the  thought. 

She  fancies  that  there  can  be  no  cutting  of  throats  but  it  must 
be  for  her.  If  this  is  tragical,  I  would  fain  know  what  is  comi- 
cal. Well !  upon  this  they  spy  the  body  of  Sempronius ;  and  Mar- 
cia, deluded  by  the  habit,  it  seems,  takes  him  for  Juba;  for  says 
she,  — 

The  face  is  muffled  up  within  the  garment. 

Now,  how  a  man  could  fight  and  fall  with  his  face  muffled  up  in 
his  garment  is,  I  think,  a  little  hard  to  conceive.  Besides,  Juba, 
before  he  killed  him,  knew  this  to  be  Sempronius.  It  was  not 
by  his  garment  that  he  knew  this;  it  was  by  his  face  then:  his 
face  therefore  was  not  muffled.  Upon  seeing  this  man  with  his 
muffled  face,  Marcia  falls  a-raving;  and,  owning  her  passion  for 
the  supposed  defunct,  begins  to  make  his  funeral  oration.  Upon 
which  Juba  enters  listening,  —  I  suppose  on  tiptoe;  for  I  cannot 
imagine  how  any  one  can  enter  listening  in  any  other  posture. 

1  Described  in  The  Reliearsal  (a  burlesque  of  Dryden's  Conquest  of  Granada). 


220  JOHN  DENNIS 

I  would  fain  know  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  during  all  this  time 
he  had  sent  nobody,  no,  not  so  much  as  a  candle-snuffer,  to  take 
away  the  dead  body  of  Sempronius.  Well !  but  let  us  regard  him 
listening.  Having  left  his  apprehension  behind  him,  he  at  first 
applies  what  Marcia  says  to  Sempronius.  But  finding  at  last, 
with  much  ado,  that  he  himself  is  the  happy  man,  he  quits  his 
eavesdropping,  and  discovers  himself  just  tune  enough  to  pre- 
vent his  being  cuckolded  by  a  dead  man,  of  whom  the  moment 
before  he  had  appeared  so  jealous,  and  greedily  intercepts  the 
bliss  which  was  fondly  designed  for  one  who  could  not  be  the 
better  for  it.  But  here  I  must  ask  a  question:  how  comes  Juba 
to  listen  here,  who  had  not  listened  before  throughout  the  play? 
Or  how  comes  he  to  be  the  only  person  of  this  tragedy  who  lis- 
tens, when  love  and  treason  were  so  often  talked  in  so  public  a 
place  as  a  hall?  I  am  afraid  the  author  was  driven  upon  all 
these  absurdities  only  to  introduce  this  miserable  mistake  of 
Marcia,  which,  after  all,  is  much  below  the  dignity  of  tragedy, 
as  anything  is  which  is  the  effect  or  result  of  trick. 

But  let  us  come  to  the  scenery  of  the  fifth  act.  Cato  appears 
first  upon  the  scene,  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  in  his  hand 
Plato's  treatise  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul,  a  drawn  sword 
on  the  table  by  him.  Now  let  us  consider  the  place  in  which 
this  sight  is  presented  to  us.  The  place,  forsooth,  is  a  long  hall. 
Let  us  suppose  that  any  one  should  place  himself  in  this  posture 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  our  halls  in  London;  that  he  should  ap- 
pear solus  in  a  sullen  posture,  a  drawn  sword  on  the  table 
by  him;  in  his  hand  Plato's  treatise  on  the  Immortality  of  the 
Soul,  translated  lately  by  Bernard  Lintot:  I  desire  the  reader 
to  consider  whether  such  a  person  as  this  would  pass  with  them 
who  beheld  him  for  a  great  patriot,  a  great  philosopher,  or  a 
general,  or  some  whimsical  person  who  fancied  himself  all 
these?  and  whether  the  people  who  belonged  to  the  family 
would  think  that  such  a  person  had  a  design  upon  their  midriffs 
or  his  own? 

In  short,  that  Cato  should  sit  long  enough  in  the  aforesaid 
posture,  in  the  midst  of  this  large  hall,  to  read  over  Plato's 
treatise  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul,  which  is  a  lecture  of 
two  long  hours;  that  he  should  propose  to  himself  to  be  private 
there  upon  that  occasion;  that  he  should  be  angry  with  his  son 
for  intruding  there;  then,  that  he  should  leave  this  hall  upon 


REMARKS    UPON   CATO  221 

the  pretence  of  sleep,  give  himself  the  mortal  wound  in  his  bed- 
chamber, and  then  be  brought  back  into  that  hall  to  expire, 
purely  to  show  his  good  breeding  and  save  his  friends  the  trouble 
of  coming  up  to  his  bed-chamber,  —  all  this  appears  to  me  to 
be  improbable,  incredible,  impossible.  .  .  . 


ANTHONY  ASHLEY  COOPER,  THIRD  EARL 
OF  SHAFTESBURY 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  MEN,  MANNERS,  OPINIONS 

AND  TIMES 

1711 

[The  above  is  the  title  of  the  collected  essays  of  Lord  Shaftesbury.  Most 
of  them  had  been  earlier  published:  the  "  Freedom  of  Wit  and  Humor"  in 
1709  (as  Sensus  Communis:  an  Essay  on  the  Freedom,  etc.),  "Advice  to  an 
Author  "  in  1710  (as  Soliloquy:  or  Advice,  etc.).  The  extracts  here  given 
are  from  Part  III,  Section  IV,  of  the  "Freedom  of  Wit  and  Humor,"  and 
Part  III,  Section  III,  of  "Advice  to  an  Author."  With  Shaftesbury's  doc- 
trine of  an  absolute  standard  of  worth,  in  both  character  and  art,  should 
be  compared  the  opposing  views  of  Mandeville;  see  pp.  251-254,  below.] 

AN    ESSAY   ON    THE    FREEDOM    OF    WIT    AND    HUMOR 

'T  is  well  for  you,  my  friend,  that  in  your  education  you  have 
had  little  to  do  with  the  philosophy  or  philosophers  of  our  days. 
A  good  poet  and  an  honest  historian  may  afford  learning  enough 
for  a  gentleman;  and  such  a  one,  whilst  he  reads  these  authors 
as  his  diversion,  will  have  a  truer  relish  of  their  sense  and  under- 
stand them  better  than  a  pedant  with  all  his  labors  and  the  as- 
sistance of  his  volumes  of  commentators.  I  am  sensible  that 
of  old  't  was  the  custom  to  send  the  youth  of  highest  quality 
to  philosophers  to  be  formed.  'T  was  in  their  schools,  in  their 
company,  and  by  their  precepts  and  example,  that  the  illus- 
trious pupils  were  inured  to  hardship  and  exercised  in  the  se- 
verest courses  of  temperance  and  self-denial.  By  such  an  early 
discipline  they  were  fitted  for  the  command  of  others;  to  main- 
tain their  country's  honor  in  war,  rule  wisely  in  the  state,  and 
fight  against  luxury  and  corruption  in  times  of  prosperity  and 
peace.  If  any  of  these  arts  are  comprehended  in  university 
learning,  'tis  well.  But  as  some  universities  in  the  world  are 
now  modeled,  they  seem  not  so  very  effectual  to  these  purposes, 
nor  so  fortunate  in  preparing  for  a  right  practice  of  the  world, 
or  a  just  knowledge  of  men  and  things.  Had  you  been  thorough- 
paced in  the  ethics  or  politics  of  the  schools,  I  should  never  have 


CHARACTERISTICS  223 

thought  of  writing  a  word  to  you  upon  your  common  sense  or 
the  love  of  mankind.  I  should  not  have  cited  the  poet's  dulce  et 
decorum;  nor,  if  I  had  made  a  character  for  you,  as  he  for  his 
noble  friend,  should  I  have  crowned  it  with  his  — 

Non  ille  pro  caris  amicis 
Aut  patria  timidus  per  ire.1 

Our  philosophy  nowadays  runs  after  the  manner  of  that  able 
sophister  who  said,  "Skin  for  skin:  all  that  a  man  hath  will  he 
give  for  his  life."  'Tis  orthodox  divinity,  as  well  as  sound  phi- 
losophy, with  some  men  to  rate  life  by  the  number  and  exquisite- 
ness  of  the  pleasing  sensations.  These  they  constantly  set  in 
opposition  to  dry  virtue  and  honesty;  and  upon  this  foot  they 
think  it  proper  to  call  all  men  fools  who  would  hazard  a  life,  or 
part  with  any  of  these  pleasing  sensations,  except  on  the  condi- 
tion of  being  repaid  in  the  same  coin  and  with  good  interest  into 
the  bargain.  Thus,  it  seems,  we  are  to  learn  virtue  by  usury, 
and  enhance  the  value  of  life,  and  of  the  pleasures  of  sense, 
in  order  to  be  wise  and  to  live  well. 

But  you,  my  friend,  are  stubborn  in  this  point;  and  instead 
of  being  brought  to  think  mournfully  of  death,  or  to  repine  at 
the  loss  of  what  you  may  sometimes  hazard  by  your  honesty, 
you  can  laugh  at  such  maxims  as  these,  and  divert  yourself 
with  the  improved  selfishness  and  philosophical  cowardice  of 
these  fashionable  moralists.  You  will  not  be  taught  to  value 
life  at  their  rate,  or  degrade  honesty  as  they  do,  who  make  it 
only  a  name.  You  are  persuaded  there  is  something  more  in  the 
thing  than  fashion  or  applause;  that  worth  and  merit  are  sub- 
stantial, and  no  way  variable  by  fancy  or  will;  and  that  honor 
is  as  much  itself  when  acting  by  itself  and  unseen,  as  when  seen 
and  applauded  by  all  the  world. 

Should  one  who  had  the  countenance  of  a  gentleman  ask  me 
"why  I  would  avoid  being  nasty,  when  nobody  was  present?", 
in  the  first  place  I  should  be  fully  satisfied  that  he  himself  was 
a  very  nasty  gentleman  who  could  ask  this  question,  and  that  it 
would  be  a  hard  matter  for  me  to  make  him  ever  conceive  what 
true  cleanliness  was.  However,  I  might,  notwithstanding  this, 
be  contented  to  give  him  a  slight  answer,  and  say  "'twas  be- 
cause I  had  a  nose."  Should  he  trouble  me  further  and  ask 
again,  "what  if  I  had  a  cold?  or  what  if  naturally  I  had  no  such 

1  "He  is  not  afraid  to  die  for  his  dear  friends  or  his  country." 


224  LORD  SHAFTESBURY 

nice  smell?"  I  might  answer  perhaps  "that  I  cared  as  little  to 
see  myself  nasty  as  that  others  should  see  me  in  that  condition." 
But  what  if  it  were  in  the  dark?  Why  even  then,  though  I  had 
neither  nose  nor  eyes,  my  sense  of  the  matter  would  still  be  the 
same:  my  nature  would  rise  at  the  thought  of  what  was  sordid; 
or  if  it  did  not,  I  should  have  a  wretched  nature  indeed,  and  hate 
myself  for  a  beast.  Honor  myself  I  never  could,  whilst  I  had  no 
better  a  sense  of  what  in  reality  I  owed  myself,  and  what  be- 
came me  as  a  human  creature. 

Much  in  the  same  manner  have  I  heard  it  asked,  Why  should 
a  man  be  honest  in  the  dark?  What  a  man  must  be  to  ask  this 
question  I  will  not  say.  But  for  those  who  have  no  better  a 
reason  for  being  honest  than  the  fear  of  a  gibbet  or  a  jail,  I 
should  not,  I  confess,  much  covet  their  company  or  acquaint- 
ance. And  if  any  guardian  of  mine  who  had  kept  his  trust,  and 
given  me  back  my  estate  when  I  came  of  age,  had  been  discov- 
ered to  have  acted  thus  through  fear  only  of  what  might  happen 
to  him,  I  should  for  my  own  part  undoubtedly  continue  civil 
and  respectful  to  him ;  but  for  my  opinion  of  his  worth,  it  would 
be  such  as  the  Pythian  god  had  of  his  votary,  who  devoutly 
feared  him,  and  therefore  restored  to  a  friend  what  had  been 
deposited  in  his  hands:  — 

Reddidit  ergo  metu,  non  moribus;  et  tamen  omnem 
Vocem  adyti  dignam  templo,  veramquc  probavit, 
Extinctus  tola  pariter  cum  prole  domoque.1 

I  know  very  well  that  many  services  to  the  public  are  done 
merely  for  the  sake  of  a  gratuity;  and  that  informers  in  particu- 
lar are  to  be  taken  care  of,  and  sometimes  made  pensioners  of 
state.  But  I  must  beg  pardon  for  the  particular  thoughts  I  may 
have  of  these  gentlemen's  merit,  and  shall  never  bestow  my 
esteem  on  any  other  than  the  voluntary  discoverers  of  villainy 
and  hearty  prosecutors  of  their  country's  interest.  And  in  this 
respect,  I  know  nothing  greater  or  nobler  than  the  undertak- 
ing and  managing  some  important  accusation,  by  which  some 
high  criminal  of  state,  or  some  formed  body  of  conspirators 
against  the  public,  may  be  arraigned  and  brought  to  punish- 
ment, through  the  honest  zeal  and  public  affection  of  a  private 
man. 

1  "He  made  restitution,  therefore,  through  fear,  not  morality;  and  yet  proved  the 
whole  oracle  as  worthy  of  the  temple  and  true,  being  destroyed  completely,  together  with 
his  children  and  house." 


CHARACTERISTICS  225 

I  know,  too,  that  the  mere  vulgar  of  mankind  often  stand  in 
need  of  such  a  rectifying  object  as  the  gallows  before  their  eyes. 
Yet  I  have  no  belief  that  any  man  of  a  liberal  education,  or 
common  honesty,  ever  needed  to  have  recourse  to  this  idea  in 
his  mind,  the  better  to  restrain  him  from  playing  the  knave. 
And  if  a  saint  had  no  other  virtue  than  what  was  raised  in  him 
by  the  same  objects  of  reward  and  punishment,  in  a  more  dis- 
tant state,  I  know  not  whose  love  or  esteem  he  might  gain  be- 
sides, but  for  my  own  part  I  should  never  think  him  worthy 
of  mine.  .  .  . 

ADVICE    TO  AN   AUTHOR 

.  .  .  However  difficult  or  desperate  it  may  appear  in  any 
artist  to  endeavor  to  bring  perfection  into  his  work,  if  he  has  not 
at  least  the  idea  of  perfection  to  give  him  aim,  he  will  be  found 
very  defective  and  mean  in  performance.  Though  his  intention 
be  to  please  the  world,  he  must  nevertheless  be,  in  a  manner, 
above  it,  and  fix  his  eye  upon  that  consummate  grace,  that 
beauty  of  nature,  and  that  perfection  of  numbers,  which  the  rest 
of  mankind,  feeling  only  by  the  effect  whilst  ignorant  of  the , 
cause,  term  the  je  ne  sais  quoi,  the  unintelligible  or  the  I  know  not 
what,  and  suppose  to  be  a  kind  of  charm  of  enchantment,  of 
which  the  artist  himself  can  give  no  account. 

But  here  I  find  I  am  tempted  to  do  what  I  have  myself  con- 
demned. Hardly  can  I  forbear  making  some  apology  for  my 
frequent  recourse  to  the  rules  of  common  artists,  to  the  masters 
of  exercise,  to  the  academies  of  painters,  statuaries,  and  to  the 
rest  of  the  "virtuoso  tribe.  But  in  this  I  am  so  fully  satisfied  I 
have  reason  on  my  side,  that,  let  custom  be  ever  so  strong 
against  me,  I  had  rather  repair  to  these  inferior  schools  to 
search  for  truth  and  nature,  than  to  some  other  places  where 
higher  arts  and  sciences  are  professed. 

I  am  persuaded  that  to  be  a  virtuoso  (so  far  as  befits  a  gentle- 
man) is  a  higher  step  towards  the  becoming  a  man  of  virtue  and 
good  sense,  than  the  being  what  in  this  age  we  call  a  scholar. 
For  even  rude  nature  itself,  in  its  primitive  simplicity,  is  a  better 
guide  to  judgment  than  improved  sophistry  and  pedantic 
learning.  Thefaciuntne  intellegendo,  ut  nihil  intellegant1  will  be 
ever  applied  by  men  of  discernment  and  free  thought  to  such 

1  "Do  they  not  bring  it  about  by  their  knowingncss  that  they  know  nothing  at  all?  " 
(Terence.) 


226  LORD  SHAFTESBURY 

logic,  such  principles,  such  forms  and  rudiments  of  knowledge, 
as  are  established  in  certain  schools  of  literature  and  science. 
The  case  is  sufficiently  understood  even  by  those  who  are  un- 
willing to  confess  the  truth  of  it.  Effects  betray  their  causes. 
And  the  known  turn  and  figure  of  those  understandings  which 
sprout  from  nurseries  of  this  kind,  give  a  plain  idea  of  what  is 
judged  on  this  occasion.  'T  is  no  wonder  if,  after  so  wrong  a 
ground  of  education,  there  appears  to  be  such  need  of  redress 
and  amendment  from  that  excellent  school  which  we  call  the 
world.  The  mere  amusements  of  gentlemen  are  found  more 
improving  than  the  profound  researches  of  pedants;  and  in  the 
management  of  our  youth  we  are  forced  to  have  recourse  to 
the  former,  as  an  antidote  against  the  genius  peculiar  to  the 
latter.  If  the  formalists  of  this  world  were  erected  into  pat- 
entees with  a  sole  commission  of  authorship,  we  should  un- 
doubtedly see  such  writing  in  our  days  as  would  either  wholly 
wean  us  from  all  books  in  general,  or  at  least  from  all  such  as 
were  the  product  of  our  own  nation  under  such  a  subordinate 
and  conforming  government. 

However  this  may  prove,  there  can  be  no  kind  of  writing 
which  relates  to  men  and  manners  where  it  is  not  necessary  for 
the  author  to  understand  poetical  and  moral  truth,  the  beauty 
of  sentiments,  the  sublime  of  characters,  and  carry  in  his  eye 
the  model  or  exemplar  of  that  natural  grace  which  gives  to  every 
action  its  attractive  charm.  If  he  has  naturally  no  eye  or  ear  for 
these  interior  numbers,  'tis  not  likely  he  should  be  able  to 
judge  better  of  that  exterior  proportion  and  symmetry  of 
composition  which  constitutes  a  legitimate  piece. 

Could  we  once  convince  ourselves  of  what  is  in  itself  so  evi- 
dent, that  in  the  very  nature  of  things  there  must  of  necessity 
be  the  foundation  of  a  right  and  wrong  taste,  as  well  in  respect 
of  inward  characters  and  features  as  of  outward  person,  be- 
havior, and  action,  we  should  be  far  more  ashamed  of  ignorance 
and  wrong  judgment  in  the  former  than  in  the  latter  of  these 
subjects.  Even  in  the  arts,  which  are  mere  imitations  of  that 
outward  grace  and  beauty,  we  not  only  confess  a  taste,  but  make 
it  a  part  of  refined  breeding  to  discover  amidst  the  many  false 
manners  and  ill  styles  the  true  and  natural  one,  which  repre- 
sents the  real  beauty  and  Venus  of  the  kind.  'T  is  the  like  moral 
grace  and  Venus  which,  discovering  itself  in  the  turns  of  charao 


CHARACTERISTICS 


227 


ter  and  the  variety  of  human  affection,  is  copied  by  the  writing 
artist.  If  he  knows  not  this  Venus,  these  graces,  nor  was  ever 
struck  with  the  beauty,  the  decorum  of  this  inward  kind,  he  can 
neither  paint  advantageously  after  the  life  nor  in  a  feigned  sub- 
ject where  he  has  full  scope.  For  never  can  he,  on  these  terms, 
represent  merit  and  virtue,  or  mark  deformity  and  blemish. 
Never  can  he  with  justice  and  true  proportion  assign  the  boun- 
daries of  either  part,  or  separate  the  distant  characters.  The 
schemes  must  be  defective,  and  the  draughts  confused,  where 
the  standard  is  weakly  established  and  the  measure  out  of  use. 
Such  a  designer,  who  has  so  little  feeling  of  these  proportions,  so 
little  consciousness  of  this  excellence  or  these  perfections,  will 
never  be  found  able  to  describe  a  perfect  character;  or,  what  is 
more  according  to  art,  express  the  effect  and  force  of  this  per- 
fection from  the  result  of  various  and  mixed  characters  of  life. 

And  thus  the  sense  of  inward  numbers,  the  knowledge  and 
practice  of  the  social  virtues,  and  the  familiarity  and  favor  of 
the  moral  graces,  are  essential  to  the  character  of  a  deserving 
artist  and  just  favorite  of  the  Muses.  Thus  are  the  Arts  and 
Virtues  mutually  friends;  and  thus  the  science  of  virtuosi  and 
that  of  virtue  itself  become,  in  a  manner,  one  and  the  same. 

One  who  aspires  to  the  character  of  a  man  of  breeding  and 
politeness  is  careful  to  form  his  judgment  of  arts  and  sciences 
upon  right  models  of  perfection.  If  he  travels  to  Rome,  he  in- 
quires which  are  the  truest  pieces  of  architecture,  the  best  re- 
mains of  statues,  the  best  paintings  of  a  Raphael  or  a  Caraccio. 
However  antiquated,  rough,  or  dismal  they  may  appear  to  him 
at  first  sight,  he  resolves  to  view  them  over  and  over,  till  he  has 
brought  himself  to  relish  them,  and  finds  their  hidden  graces  and 
perfections.  He  takes  particular  care  to  turn  his  eye  from  every- 
thing which  is  gaudy,  luscious,  and  of  a  false  taste.  Nor  is  he  less 
careful  to  turn  his  ear  from  every  sort  of  music  besides  that 
which  is  of  the  best  manner  and  truest  harmony. 

'T  were  to  be  wished  we  had  the  same  regard  to  a  right  taste 
in  life  and  manners.  What  mortal  being,  once  convinced  of  a 
difference  in  inward  character,  and  of  a  preference  due  to  one 
kind  above  another,  would  not  be  concerned  to  make  his  own 
the  best?  If  civility  and  humanity  be  a  taste;  if  brutality,  in- 
solence, riot,  be  in  the  same  manner  a  taste,  who,  if  he  could 
reflect,  would  not  choose  to  form  himself  on  the  amiable  and 


228  LORD  SHAFTESBURY 

agreeable  rather  than  the  odious  and  perverse  model?  Who 
would  not  endeavor  to  force  nature  as  well  in  this  respect  as  in 
what  relates  to  a  taste  or  judgment  in  other  arts  and  sciences? 
For  in  each  place  the  force  on  nature  is  used  only  for  its  redress. 
If  a  natural  good  taste  be  not  already  formed  in  us,  why  should 
not  we  endeavor  to  form  it,  and  cultivate  it  till  it  become 
natural? 

"I  like!  I  fancy!  I  admire!  How?  By  accident,  or  as  I  please? 
No.  But  I  learn  to  fancy,  to  admire,  to  please,  as  the  subjects 
themselves  are  deserving,  and  can  bear  me  out.  Otherwise  I  like 
at  this  hour  but  dislike  the  next.  I  shall  be  weary  of  my  pur- 
suit, and,  upon  experience,  find  little  pleasure  in  the  main,  if  my 
choice  and  judgment  in  it  be  from  no  other  rule  than  that  single 
one,  because  I  please.  Grotesque  and  monstrous  figures  often 
please.  Cruel  spectacles  and  barbarities  are  also  found  to  please, 
and,  in  some  tempers,  to  please  beyond  all  other  subjects.  But  is 
this  pleasure  right?  And  shall  I  follow  it  if  it  presents?  not  strive 
with  it,  or  endeavor  to  prevent  its  growth  or  prevalency  in  my 
temper?  How  stands  the  case  in  a  more  soft  and  flattering  kind 
of  pleasure?  Effeminacy  pleases  me.  The  Indian  figures,  the 
Japan  work,  the  enamel  strikes  my  eye.  The  luscious  colors  and 
glossy  paint  gain  upon  my  fancy.  A  French  or  Flemish  style  is 
highly  liked  by  me  at  first  sight,  and  I  pursue  my  liking.  But 
what  ensues?  Do  I  not  forever  forfeit  my  good  relish?  How  is  it 
possible  I  should  thus  come  to  taste  the  beauties  of  an  Italian 
master,  or  of  a  hand  happily  formed  on  nature  and  the  ancients  ? 
'Tis  not  by  wantonness  and  humor  that  I  shall  attain  my  end 
and  arrive  at  the  enjoyment  I  propose.  The  art  itself  is  severe, 
the  rules  rigid.  And  if  I  expect  the  knowledge  should  come  to 
me  by  accident,  or  in  play,  I  shall  be  grossly  deluded,  and  prove 
myself,  at  best,  a  mock-virtuoso  or  mere  pedant  of  the  kind." 

Here  therefore  we  have  once  again  exhibited  our  moral  sci- 
ence in  the  same  method  and  manner  of  soliloquy  as  above. 
To  this  correction  of  humor  and  formation  of  a  taste,  our  read- 
ing, if  it  be  of  the  right  sort,  must  principally  contribute.  What- 
ever company  we  keep,  or  however  polite  and  agreeable  their 
characters  may  be  with  whom  we  converse  or  correspond,  if  the 
authors  we  read  are  of  another  kind,  we  shall  find  our  palate 
strangely  turned  their  way.  We  are  the  unhappier  in  this  re- 
spect for  being  scholars,  if  our  studies  be  ill  chosen.  Nor  can  I, 


CHARACTERISTICS 


229 


for  this  reason,  think  it  proper  to  call  a  man  well-read  who  reads 
many  authors,  since  he  must  of  necessity  have  more  ill  models 
than  good,  and  be  more  stuffed  with  bombast,  ill  fancy,  and  wry 
thought,  than  filled  with  solid  sense  and  just  imagination.  .  .  . 
One  would  imagine  that  our  philosophical  writers,  who  pre- 
tend to  treat  of  morals,  should  far  out-do  mere  poets  in  recom- 
mending virtue,  and  representing  what  was  fair  and  amiable  in 
human  actions.  One  would  imagine  that,  if  they  turned  their 
eye  towards  remote  countries  (of  which  they  affect  so  much  to 
speak) ,  they  should  search  for  that  simplicity  of  manners  and 
innocence  of  behavior  which  has  been  often  known  among  mere 
savages,  ere  they  were  corrupted  by  our  commerce,  and,  by  sad 
example,  instructed  in  all  kinds  of  treachery  and  inhumanity. 
'T  would  be  of  advantage  to  us  to  hear  the  causes  of  this  strange 
corruption  in  ourselves,  and  be  made  to  consider  of  our  devia- 
tion from  nature,  and  from  that  just  purity  of  manners  which 
might  be  expected,  especially  from  a  people  so  assisted  and  en- 
lightened by  religion.  For  who  would  not  naturally  expect  more 
justice,  fidelity,  temperance,  and  honesty  from  Christians  than 
from  Mahometans  or  mere  pagans?  But  so  far  are  our  modern 
moralists  from  condemning  any  unnatural  vices  or  corrupt 
manners,  whether  in  our  own  or  foreign  climates,  that  they 
would  have  vice  itself  appear  as  natural  as  virtue,  and  from  the 
worst  examples  would  represent  to  us  that  all  actions  are  natu- 
rally indifferent;  that  they  have  no  note  or  character  of  good  or 
ill  in  themselves,  but  are  distinguished  by  mere  fashion,  law  or 
arbitrary  decree.  Wonderful  philosophy!  raised  from  the  dregs 
of  an  illiterate,  mean  kind,  which  was  ever  despised  among  the 
great  ancients,  and  rejected  by  all  men  of  action  or  sound  erudi- 
tion, but  in  these  ages  imperfectly  copied  from  the  original,  and, 
with  much  disadvantage,  imitated  and  assumed  in  common 
both  by  devout  and  indevout  attempters  in  the  moral  kind. 

Should  a  writer  upon  music,  addressing  himself  to  the  stu- 
dents and  lovers  of  the  art,  declare  to  them  that  the  measure 
or  rule  of  harmony  was  caprice  or  will,  humor  or  fashion,  'tis 
not  very  likely  he  should  be  heard  with  great  attention  or  treated 
with  real  gravity.  For  harmony  is  harmony  by  nature,  let  men 
judge  ever  so  ridiculously  of  music.  So  is  symmetry  and  pro- 
portion founded  still  in  nature,  let  men's  fancy  prove  ever  so 
barbarous,  or  their  fashions  ever  so  Gothic,  in  their  architec- 


230  LORD  SHAFTESBURY 

ture,  sculpture,  or  whatever  other  designing  art.  Tis  the  same 
case  where  life  and  manners  are  concerned.  Virtue  has  the 
same  fixed  standard.  The  same  numbers,  harmony,  and  pro- 
portion will  have  place  in  morals,  and  are  discoverable  in  the 
characters  and  affections  of  mankind;  in  which  are  laid  the  just 
foundations  of  an  art  and  science  superior  to  every  other  of 
human  practice  and  comprehension.  .  .  . 


GEORGE   BERKELEY 

< 

DIALOGUES   BETWEEN   HYLAS  AND   PHILONOUS 

1713 

[Berkeley  is  the  only  English  philosopher  of  the  eighteenth  century 
whose  style  makes  him  a  figure  of  importance  in  literature.  In  1710  he 
had  published  his  Principles  of  Human  Knowledge,  setting  forth  his  theory 
that  the  universe  is  purely  spiritual,  and  that  the  existence  of  material 
substance  is  an  unnecessary  assumption.  It  had  been  much  misunder- 
stood, and  to  answer  the  arguments  of  his  opponents  he  made  use  of  the 
form  of  the  Platonic  dialogue  in  the  work  here  represented.  In  Hylas  (con- 
nected with  Greek  v\rj,  matter)  he  personifies  the  belief  in  material  sub- 
stance; in  Philonous  ("lover  of  mind  ")  his  own  doctrine.  The  extracts  are 
chiefly  from  the  first  dialogue,  with  a  short  passage  from  the  second  and 
another  from  the  conclusion  of  the  third.] 

.  .  .  Hylas.  You  were  represented  in  last  night's  Conversa- 
tion as  one  who  maintained  the  most  extravagant  opinion  that 
ever  entered  into  the  mind  of  man,  to  wit,  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  material  substance  in  the  world. 

Philonous.  That  there  is  no  such  thing  as  what  philosophers 
call  material  substance,  I  am  seriously  persuaded ;  but  if  I  were 
made  to  see  anything  absurd  or  skeptical  in  this,  I  should  then 
have  the  same  reason  to  renounce  this  that  I  imagine  I  have  now 
to  reject  the  contrary  opinion. 

Hylas.  What!  Can  anything  be  more  fantastical,  more  re- 
pugnant to  common  sense,  or  a  more  manifest  piece  of  skepti- 
cism, than  to  believe  there  is  no  such  thing  as  matter? 

Philonous.  Softly,  good  Hylas.  What  if  it  should  prove  that 
you,  who  hold  there  is,  are  by  virtue  of  that  opinion  a  greater 
skeptic,  and  maintain  more  paradoxes  and  repugnances  to  com- 
mon sense,  than  I  who  believe  no  such  thing? 

Hylas.  You  may  as  soon  persuade  me  the  part  is  greater  than 
the  whole  as  that,  in  order  to  avoid  absurdity  and  skepticism,  I 
should  ever  be  obliged  to  give  up  my  opinion  in  this  point. 

Philonous.  Well,  then,  are  you  content  to  admit  that  opinion 
for  true  which,  upon  examination,  shall  appear  most  agreeable 
to  common  sense,  and  remote  from  skepticism? 


232  GEORGE  BERKELEY 

Bylas.  With  all  my  heart.  Since  you  are  for  raising  disputes 
about  the  plainest  things  in  nature,  I  am  content  for  once  to 
hear  what  you  have  to  say. 

Philonous.  Pray,  Hylas,  what  do  you  mean  by  a  skeptic? 

Hylas.  I  mean  what  all  men  mean,  —  one  that  doubts  of 
everything. 

Philonous.  He,  then,  who  entertains  no  doubt  concerning 
some  particular  point,  with  regard  to  that  point  cannot  be 
thought  a  skeptic. 

Hylas.  I  agree  with  you. 

Philonous.  Whether  doth  doubting  consist  in  embracing  the 
affirmative  or  negative  side  of  a  question? 

Hylas.  In  neither;  for  whoever  understands  English  cannot 
but  know  that  doubting  signifies  a  suspense  between  both. 

Philonous.  He,  then,  that  denies  any  point  can  no  more  be 
said  to  doubt  of  it,  than  he  who  affirmeth  it  with  the  same  de- 
gree of  assurance. 

Hylas.  True. 

Philonous.  And,  consequently,  for  such  his  denial  is  no  more 
to  be  esteemed  a  skeptic  than  the  other. 

Hylas.  I  acknowledge  it. 

Philonous.  How  cometh  it  to  pass,  then,  Hylas,  that  you 
pronounce  me  a  skeptic  because  I  deny  what  you  affirm,  to  wit, 
the  existence  of  matter?  Since,  for  aught  you  can  tell,  I  am  as 
peremptory  in  my  denial  as  you  in  your  affirmation. 

Hylas.  Hold,  Philonous,  —  I  have  been  a  little  out  in  my 
definition;  but  every  false  step  a  man  makes  in  discourse  is  not 
to  be  insisted  on.  I  said,  indeed,  that  a  skeptic  was  one  who 
doubted  of  everything;  but  I  should  have  added,  or  who  denies 
the  reality  and  truth  of  things. 

Philonous.  What  things?  Do  you  mean  the  principles  and 
theorems  of  sciences?  But  these  you  know  are  universal  intel- 
lectual notions,  and  consequently  independent  of  matter;  the 
denial  therefore  of  this  doth  not  imply  the  denying  them. 

Hylas.  I  grant  it.  But  are  there  no  other  things?  What  think 
you  of  distrusting  the  senses,  of  denying  the  real  existence  of 
sensible  things,  or  pretending  to  know  nothing  of  them?  Is  not 
this  sufficient  to  denominate  a  man  a  skeptic? 

Philonous.  Shall  we  therefore  examine  which  of  us  it  is  that 
denies  the  reality  of  sensible  things,  or  professes  the  greatest 


DIALOGUES  233 

ignorance  of  them?  —  since,  if  I  take  you  rightly,  he  is  to  be  es- 
teemed the  greatest  skeptic? 

Hylas.  That  is  what  I  desire. 

Philonous.  What  mean  you  by  sensible  things? 

Hylas.  Those  things  which  are  perceived  by  the  senses.  Can 
you  imagine  that  I  mean  anything  else? 

Philonous.  Pardon  me,  Hylas,  if  I  am  desirous  clearly  to  ap- 
prehend your  notions,  since  this  may  much  shorten  our  inquiry. 
Suffer  me  then  to  ask  you  this  farther  question.  Are  those 
things  only  perceived  by  the  senses  which  are  perceived  imme- 
diately? Or,  may  those  things  properly  be  said  to  be  sensible 
which  are  perceived  mediately,  or  not  without  the  intervention 
of  others? 

Hylas.  I  do  not  sufficiently  understand  you. 

Philonous.  In  reading  a  book,  what  I  immediately  perceive 
are  the  letters,  but  mediately,  or  by  means  of  these,  are  sug- 
gested to  my  mind  the  notions  of  God,  virtue,  truth,  etc.  Now, 
that  the  letters  are  truly  sensible  things,  or  perceived  by  sense, 
there  is  no  doubt ;  but  I  would  know  whether  you  take  the  things 
suggested  by  them  to  be  so  too. 

Hylas.  No,  certainly;  it  were  absurd  to  think  God  or  virtue 
sensible  things,  though  they  may  be  signified  and  suggested  to 
the  mind  by  sensible  marks,  with  which  they  have  an  arbitrary 
connection. 

Philonous.  It  seems,  then,  that  by  sensible  things  you  mean 
those  only  which  can  be  perceived  immediately  by  sense? 

Hylas.  Right. 

Philonous.  Doth  it  not  follow  from  this  that,  though  I  see 
one  part  of  the  sky  red,  and  another  blue,  and  that  my  reason 
doth  thence  evidently  conclude  there  must  be  some  cause  of 
that  diversity  of  colors,  yet  that  cause  cannot  be  said  to  be  a 
sensible  thing,  or  perceived  by  the  sense  of  seeing? 

Hylas.  It  doth. 

Philonous.  In  like  manner,  though  I  hear  variety  of  sounds, 
yet  I  cannot  be  said  to  hear  the  causes  of  those  sounds? 

Hylas.  You  cannot. 

Philonous.  And  when  by  my  touch  I  perceive  a  thing  to  be 
hot  and  heavy,  I  cannot  say,  with  any  truth  or  propriety,  that  I 
feel  the  cause  of  its  heat  or  weight? 

Hylas.  To  prevent  any  more  questions  of  this  kind,  I  tell  you 


234  GEORGE  BERKELEY 

once  for  all  that  by  sensible  things  I  mean  those  only  which  are 
perceived  by  sense,  and  that  in  truth  the  senses  perceive  no  thing 
which  they  do  not  perceive  immediately;  for  they  make  no  in- 
ferences. The  deducing,  therefore,  of  causes  or  occasions  from 
effects  or  appearances,  which  alone  are  perceived  by  sense,  en- 
tirely relates  to  reason. 

Philonous.  This  point,  then,  is  agreed  between  us,  —  that 
sensible  things  are  those  only  which  are  immediately  perceived 
by  sense.  You  will  farther  inform  me  whether  we  immediately 
perceive  by  sight  anything  beside  light,  and  colors,  and  figures; 
or  by  hearing  anything  but  sounds;  by  the  palate,  anything 
beside  tastes;  by  the  smell,  beside  odors;  or  by  the  touch,  more 
than  tangible  qualities. 

Hylas.  We  do  not. 

Philonous.  It  seems,  therefore,  that  if  you  take  away  all 
sensible  qualities,  there  remains  nothing  sensible? 

Hylas.  I  grant  it. 

Philonous.  Sensible  things,  therefore,  are  nothing  else  but 
so  many  sensible  qualities,  or  combinations  of  sensible  quali- 
ties? 

Hylas.  Nothing  else. 

Philonous.  Heat,  then,  is  a  sensible  thing? 

Hylas.  Certainly. 

Philonous.  Doth  the  reality  of  sensible  things  consist  in  be- 
ing perceived?  or  is  it  something  distinct  from  their  being  per- 
ceived, and  that  bears  no  relation  to  the  mind? 

Hylas.  To  exist  is  one  thing,  and  to  be  perceived  another. 

Philonous.  I  speak  with  regard  to  sensible  things  only;  and 
of  these  I  ask,  whether  by  their  real  existence  you  mean  a  sub- 
sistence exterior  to  the  mind,  and  distinct  from  their  being  per- 
ceived? 

Hylas.  I  mean  a  real  absolute  being,  distinct  from,  and  with- 
out any  relation  to,  their  being  perceived. 

Philonous.  Heat,  therefore,  if  it  be  allowed  a  real  being,  must 
exist  without  the  mind? 

Hylas.  It  must. 

Philonous.  Tell  me,  Hylas,  is  this  real  existence  equally 
compatible  to  all  degrees  of  heat  which  we  perceive,  or  is  there 
any  reason  why  we  should  attribute  it  to  some,  and  deny  it  of 
others?  And  if  there  be,  pray  let  me  know  that  reason. 


DIALOGUES  235 

Eylas.  Whatever  degree  of  heat  we  perceive  by  sense,  we  may 
be  sure  the  same  exists  in  the  object  that  occasions  it. 

Philonous.  What!  the  greatest  as  well  as  the  least? 

Eylas.  I  tell  you,  the  reason  is  plainly  the  same  in  respect  of 
both ;  they  are  both  perceived  by  sense.  Nay,  the  greater  degree 
of  heat  is  more  sensibly  perceived;  and  consequently,  if  there  is 
any  difference,  we  are  more  certain  of  its  real  existence  than  we 
can  be  of  the  reality  of  a  lesser  degree. 

Philonous.  But  is  not  the  most  vehement  and  intense  de- 
gree of  heat  a  very  great  pain? 

Eylas.  No  one  can  deny  it. 

Philonous.  And  is  any  unperceiving  thing  capable  of  pain  or 
pleasure? 

Eylas.  No,  certainly. 

Philonous.  Is  your  material  substance  a  senseless  being,  or  a 
being  endowed  with  sense  and  perception? 

Eylas.  It  is  senseless,  without  doubt. 

Philonous.  It  cannot,  therefore,  be  the  subject  of  pain? 

Eylas.  By  no  means. 

Philonous.  Nor,  consequently,  of  the  greatest  heat  perceived 
by  sense,  since  you  acknowledge  this  to  be  no  small  pain? 

Eylas.  I  grant  it. 

Philonous.  What  shall  we  say,  then,  of  your  external  object: 
is  it  a  material  substance,  or  no? 

Eylas.  It  is  a  material  substance  with  the  sensible  qualities 
inhering  in  it. 

Philonous.  How,  then,  can  a  great  heat  exist  in  it,  since  you 
own  it  cannot  in  a  material  substance?  I  desire  you  would  clear 
this  point. 

Eylas.  Hold,  Philonous,  —  I  fear  I  was  out  in  yielding  intense 
heat  to  be  a  pain.  It  should  seem  rather  that  pain  is  something 
distinct  from  heat,  and  the  consequence  or  effect  of  it. 

Philonous.  Upon  putting  your  hand  near  the  fire,  do  you  per- 
ceive one  simple  uniform  sensation,  or  two  distinct  sensations? 

Eylas.  But  one  simple  sensation. 

Philonous.  Is  not  the  heat  immediately  perceived? 

Eylas.  It  is. 

Philonous.  And  the  pain? 

Eylas.  True. 

Philonous.  Seeing,   therefore,   they  are  both  immediately 


236  GEORGE  BERKELEY 

perceived  at  the  same  time,  and  the  fire  affects  you  only  with 
one  simple  or  imcompounded  idea,  it  follows  that  this  same 
simple  idea  is  both  the  intense  heat  immediately  perceived, 
and  the  pain;  and,  consequently,  that  the  intense  heat  im- 
mediately perceived  is  nothing  distinct  from  a  particular  sort 
of  pain. 

Hylas.  It  seems  so. 

Philonous.  Again,  try  in  your  thoughts,  Hylas,  if  you  can 
conceive  a  vehement  sensation  to  be  without  pain  or  pleasure. 

Hylas.  I  cannot. 

Philonous.  Or  can  you  frame  to  yourself  an  idea  of  sensible 
pain  or  pleasure  in  general,  abstracted  from  every  particular 
idea  of  heat,  cold,  tastes,  smells,  etc? 

Hylas.  I  do  not  find  that  I  can. 

Philonous.  Doth  it  not  therefore  follow  that  sensible  pain  is 
nothing  distinct  from  those  sensations  or  ideas,  in  an  intense 
degree? 

Hylas.  It  is  undeniable;  and,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  begin  to 
suspect  a  very  great  heat  cannot  exist  but  in  a  mind  perceiving 
it. 

Philonous.  What!  are  you  then  in  that  skeptical  state  of  sus- 
pense, between  affirming  and  denying? 

Hylas.  I  think  I  may  be  positive  in  the  point.  A  very  violent 
and  painful  heat  cannot  exist  without  the  mind. 

Philonous.  It  hath  not,  therefore,  according  to  you,  any  real 
being? 

Hylas.  I  own  it. 

Philonous.  Is  it  therefore  certain  that  there  is  no  body  in  na- 
ture really  hot? 

Hylas.  I  have  not  denied  there  is  any  real  heat  in  bodies.  I 
only  say  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  intense  real  heat. 

Philonous.  But  did  you  not  say  before  that  all  degrees  of 
heat  were  equally  real;  or,  if  there  was  any  difference,  that  the 
greater  were  more  undoubtedly  real  than  the  lesser? 

Hylas.  True :  but  it  was  because  I  did  not  then  consider  the 
ground  there  is  for  distinguishing  between  them,  which  I  now 
plainly  see.  And  it  is  this:  because  intense  heat  is  nothing 
else  but  a  particular  kind  of  painful  sensation,  and  pain  cannot 
exist  but  in  a  perceiving  being,  it  follows  that  no  intense  heat 
can  really  exist  in  an  unperceiving  corporeal  substance.  jBut  this 


DIALOGUES  237 

is  no  reason  why  we  should .  deny  heat  in  an  inferior  degree  to 
exist  in  such  a  substance. 

Philonous.  But  how  shall  we  be  able  to  discern  those  degrees 
of  heat  which  exist  only  in  the  mind  from  those  which  exist 
without  it? 

Hylas.  That  is  no  difficult  matter.  You  know  the  least  pain 
cannot  exist  unperceived;  whatever,  therefore,  degree  of  heat  is 
a  pain  exists  only  in  the  mind.  But  as  for  all  other  degrees  of 
heat,  nothing  obliges  us  to  think  the  same  of  them. 

Philonous.  I  think  you  granted  before  that  no  unperceiving 
being  was  capable  of  pleasure,  any  more  than  of  pain. 

Hylas.  I  did. 

Philonous.  And  is  not  warmth,  or  a  more  gentle  degree  of 
heat  than  what  causes  uneasiness,  a  pleasure? 

Hylas.  What  then? 

Philonous.  Consequently  it  cannot  exist  without  the  mind  in 
an  unperceiving  substance  or  body. 

Hylas.  So  it  seems. 

Philonous.  Since,  therefore,  as  well  those  degrees  of  heat  that 
are  not  painful,  as  those  that  are,  can  exist  only  in  a  thinking 
substance,  may  we  not  conclude  that  external  bodies  are  abso- 
lutely incapable  of  any  degree  of  heat  whatsoever? 

Hylas.  On  second  thoughts,  I  do  not  think  it  is  so  evident 
that  warmth  is  a  pleasure,  as  that  a  great  degree  of  heat  is  a  pain. 

Philonous.  I  do  not  pretend  that  warmth  is  as  great  a  plea- 
sure as  heat  is  a  pain.  But,  if  you  grant  it  to  be  even  a  small 
pleasure,  it  serves  to  make  good  my  conclusion. 

Hylas.  I  could  rather  call  it  an  indolence.  It  seems  to  be 
nothing  more  than  a  privation  of  both  pain  and  pleasure.  And 
that  such  a  quality  or  state  as  this  may  agree  to  an  unthinking 
substance,  I  hope  you  will  not  deny. 

Philonous.  If  you  are  resolved  to  maintain  that  warmth,  or  a 
gentle  degree  of  heat,  is  no  pleasure,  I  know  not  how  to  convince 
you  otherwise  than  by  appealing  to  your  own  sense.  But  what 
think  you  of  cold? 

Hylas.  The  same  that  I  do  of  heat.  An  intense  degree  of 
cold  is  a  pain;  for  to  feel  a  very  great  cold  is  to  perceive  a 
great  uneasiness;  it  cannot,  therefore,  exist  without  the  mind. 
But  a  lesser  degree  of  cold  may,  as  well  as  a  lesser  degree  of 
heat. 


238  GEORGE  BERKELEY 

Philonous.  Those  bodies,  therefore,  upon  whose  application 
to  our  own  we  perceive  a  moderate  degree  of  heat,  must  be  con- 
cluded to  have  a  moderate  degree  of  heat  or  warmth  in  them; 
and  those  upon  whose  application  we  feel  a  like  degree  of  cold, 
must  be  thought  to  have  cold  in  them. 

Hylas.  They  must. 

Philonous.  Can  any  doctrine  be  true  that  necessarily  leads  a 
man  into  an  absurdity? 

Hylas.  Without  doubt  it  cannot. 

Philonous.  Is  it  not  an  absurdity  to  think  that  the  same  thing 
should  be  at  the  same  time  both  cold  and  warm? 

Hylas.  It  is. 

Philonous.  Suppose,  now,  one  of  your  hands  hot,  and  the 
other  cold,  and  that  they  are  both  at  once  put  into  the  same 
vessel  of  water,  in  an  intermediate  state;  will  not  the  water  seem 
cold  to  one  hand  and  warm  to  the  other? 

Hylas.  It  will. 

Philonous.  Ought  we  not,  therefore,  by  your  principles,  to 
conclude  it  is  really  both  cold  and  warm  at  the  same  time,  — 
that  is,  according  to  your  own  concession,  to  believe  an  ab- 
surdity? 

Hylas.  I  confess  it  seems  so. 

Philonous.  Consequently  the  principles  themselves  are  false, 
since  you  have  granted  that  no  true  principle  leads  to  an  ab- 
surdity. 

Hylas.  But,  after  all,  can  anything  be  more  absurd  than  to 
say  "there  is  no  heat  in  the  fire"? 

Philonous.  To  make  the  point  still  clearer —  tell  me  whether 
in  two  cases  exactly  alike  we  ought  not  to  make  the  same  judg- 
ment. 

Hylas.  We  ought. 

Philonous.  When  a  pin  pricks  your  finger,  doth  it  not  rend 
and  divide  the  fibres  of  your  flesh? 

Hylas.  It  doth. 

Philonous.  And  when  a  coal  burns  your  finger,  doth  it  any 
more? 

Hylas.  It  doth  not. 

Philonous.  Since,  therefore,  you  neither  judge  the  sensation 
itself  occasioned  by  the  pin,  nor  anything  like  it  to  be  in  the  pin, 
you  should  not,  conformably  to  what  you  have  now  granted, 


DIALOGUES  239 

judge  the  sensation  occasioned  by  the  fire,  or  anything  like  it, 
to  be  in  the  fire. 

Hylas.  Well,  since  it  must  be  so,  I  am  content  to  yield  this 
point,  and  acknowledge  that  heat  and  cold  are  only  sensations 
existing  in  our  minds.  But  there  still  remain  qualities  enough 
to  secure  the  reality  of  external  things. 

Philonous.  But  what  will  you  say,  Hylas,  if  it  shall  appear 
that  the  case  is  the  same  with  regard  to  all  other  sensible  quali- 
ties, and  that  they  can  no  more  be  supposed  to  exist  without  the 
mind  than  heat  and  cold? 

Hylas.  Then  indeed  you  will  have  done  something  to  the 
purpose;  but  that  is  what  I  despair  of  seeing  proved.  .  .  . 

Philonous.  Then  as  to  sounds,  what  must  we  think  of  them? 
Are  they  accidents  really  inherent  in  external  bodies,  or  not? 

Hylhs.  That  they  inhere  not  in  the  sonorous  bodies  is  plain 
from  hence :  because  a  bell  struck  in  the  exhausted  receiver  of  an 
air-pump  sends  forth  no  sound.  The  air,  therefore,  must  be 
thought  the  subject  of  sound. 

Philonous.  What  reason  is  there  for  that,  Hylas? 

Hylas.  Because,  when  any  motion  is  raised  in  the  air,  we 
perceive  a  sound  greater  or  lesser,  according  to  the  air's  motion; 
but  without  some  motion  in  the  air  we  never  hear  any  sound 
at  all. 

Philonous.  And  granting  that  we  never  hear  a  sound  but 
when  some  motion  is  produced  in  the  air,  yet  I  do  not  see  how 
you  can  infer  from  thence  that  the  sound  itself  is  in  the  air. 

Hylas.  It  is  this  very  motion  in  the  external  air  that  pro- 
duces in  the  mind  the  sensation  of  sound.  For,  striking  on  the 
drum  of  the  ear,  it  causeth  a  vibration,  which  by  the  auditory 
nerves  being  communicated  to  the  brain,  the  soul  is  thereupon 
affected  with  the  sensation  called  sound. 

Philonous.  What!  is  sound,  then,  a  sensation? 

Hylas.  I  tell  you,  as  perceived  by  us,  it  is  a  particular  sensa- 
tion in  the  mind. 

Philonous.  And  can  any  sensation  exist  without  the  mind? 

Hylas.  No,  certainly. 

Philonous.  How  then  can  sound,  being  a  sensation,  exist  in 
the  air,  if  by  the  air  you  mean  a  senseless  substance  existing 
without  the  mind? 

Hylas.  You  must  distinguish,  Philonous,  between  sound  as  it 


24o  GEORGE  BERKELEY 

is  perceived  by  us,  and  as  it  is  in  itself,  or  —  which  is  the  same 
thing  —  between  the  sound  we  immediately  perceive,  and  that 
which  exists  without  us.  The  former,  indeed,  is  a  particular 
kind  of  sensation,  but  the  latter  is  merely  a  vibrative  or  undula- 
tory  motion  in  the  air. 

Philonous.  I  thought  I  had  already  obviated  that  distinction, 
by  the  answer  I  gave  when  you  were  applying  it  in  a  like  case  be- 
fore. But,  to  say  no  more  of  that,  are  you  sure,  then,  that  sound 
is  really  nothing  but  motion? 

Hylas.  I  am. 

Philonous.  Whatever,  therefore,  agrees  to  real  sound,  may 
with  truth  be  attributed  to  motion? 

Hylas.  It  may. 

Philonous.  It  is  then  good  sense  to  speak  of  motion  as  of  a 
thing  that  is  loud,  sweet,  acute,  or  grave.  • 

Hylas.  I  see  you  are  resolved  not  to  understand  me.  Is  it 
not  evident  those  accidents  or  modes  belong  only  to  sensible 
sound,  or  sound  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word,  but 
not  to  sound  in  the  real  and  philosophic  sense?  —  which,  as  I 
just  now  told  you,  is  nothing  but  a  certain  motion  of  the  air. 

Philonous.  It  seems,  then,  there  are  two  sorts  of  sound,  — 
the  one  vulgar,  or  that  which  is  heard,  the  other  philosophical 
and  real? 

Hylas.  Even  so. 

Philonous.  And  the  latter  consists  in  motion? 

Hylas.  I  told  you  so  before. 

Philonous.  Tell  me,  Hylas,  to  which  of  the  senses,  think  you, 
the  idea  of  motion  belongs?  to  the  hearing? 

Hylas.  No,  certainly;  but  to  the  sight  and  touch. 

Philonous.  It  should  follow,  then,  that,  according  to  you, 
real  sounds  may  possibly  be  seen  or  felt,  but  never  heard. 

Hylas.  Look  you,  Philonous,  you  may,  if  you  please,  make 
a  jest  of  my  opinion,  but  that  will  not  alter  the  truth  of  things. 
I  own,  indeed,  the  inferences  you  draw  me  into  sound  some- 
thing oddly;  but  common  language,  you  know,  is  framed  by, 
and  for  the  use  of,  the  vulgar;  we  must  not  therefore  wonder,  if 
expressions  adapted  to  exact  philosophic  notions  seem  uncouth 
and  out  of  the  way. 

Philonous.  Is  it  come  to  that?  I  assure  you,  I  imagine  myself 
to  have  gained  no  small  point,  since  you  make  so  light  of  part- 


DIALOGUES  241 

ing  from  common  phrases  and  opinions;  it  being  a  main  part  of 
our  inquiry  to  examine  whose  notions  are  widest  of  the  common 
road,  and  most  repugnant  to  the  general  sense  of  the  world. 
But  can  you  think  it  no  more  than  a  philosophical  paradox,  to 
say  that  real  sounds  are  never  heard,  and  that  the  idea  of  them  is 
obtained  by  some  other  sense?  And  is  there  nothing  in  this 
contrary  to  nature  and  the  truth  of  things? 

Hylas.  To  deal  ingenuously,  I  do  not  like  it.  And,  after  the 
concessions  already  made,  I  had  as  well  grant  that  sounds  too 
have  no  real  being  without  the  mind. 

Philonous.  Well,  then,  are  you  at  length  satisfied  that  no 
sensible  things  have  a  real  existence,  and  that  you  are  in  truth 
an  arrant  skeptic? 

Hylas.  It  is  too  plain  to  be  denied. 

Philonous.  Look!  are  not  the  fields  covered  with  a  delightful 
verdure?  Is  there  not  something  in  the  woods  and  groves,  in 
the  rivers  and  clear  springs,  that  soothes,  that  delights,  that 
transports  the  soul?  At  the  prospect  of  the  wide  and  deep 
ocean,  or  some  huge  mountain  whose  top  is  lost  in  the  cloudc, 
or  of  an  old  gloomy  forest,  are  not  our  minds  filled  with  a  pleas- 
ing horror?  Even  in  rocks  and  deserts  is  there  not  an  agreeable 
wildness?  How  sincere  a  pleasure  is  it  to  behold  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  earth!  To  preserve  and  renew  our  relish  for 
them,  is  not  the  veil  of  night  alternately  drawn  over  her  face,  and 
doth  she  not  change  her  dress  with  the  seasons?  How  aptly  are 
the  elements  disposed !  What  variety  and  use  in  the  meanest 
productions  of  nature!  What  delicacy,  what  beauty,  what  con- 
trivance, in  animal  and  vegetable  bodies!  How  exquisitely  are 
all  things  suited,  as  well  to  their  particular  ends,  as  to  consti- 
tute opposite  parts  of  the  whole!  And,  while  they  mutually  aid 
and  support,  do  they  not  also  set  off  and  illustrate  each  other? 
Raise  now  your  thoughts  from  this  ball  of  earth  to  all  those 
glorious  luminaries  that  adorn  the  high  arch  of  heaven.  The 
motion  and  situation  of  the  planets,  —  are  they  not  admirable 
for  use  and  order?  Were  those  —  miscalled  erratic  —  globes 
once  known  to  stray,  in  their  repeated  journeys  through  the 
pathless  void?  Do  they  not  measure  areas  round  the  sun  ever 
proportioned  to  the  times?  So  fixed,  so  immutable  are  the  laws 
by  which  the  unseen  Author  of  nature  actuates  the  universe. 


242  GEORGE  BERKELEY 

How  vivid  and  radiant  is  the  lustre  of  the  fixed  stars!  How 
magnificent  and  rich  that  negligent  profusion  with  which  they 
appear  to  be  scattered  throughout  the  whole  azure  vault !  yet,  if 
you  take  the  telescope,  it  brings  into  your  sight  a  new  host  of 
stars  that  escape  the  naked  eye.  Here  they  seem  contiguous 
and  minute,  but  to  a  nearer  view  immense  orbs  of  light,  at  vari- 
ous distances,  far  sunk  in  the  abyss  of  space.  Now  you  must 
call  imagination  to  your  aid.  The  feeble  narrow  sense  cannot 
descry  innumerable  worlds  revolving  round  the  central  fires, 
and  in  those  worlds  the  energy  of  an  all-perfect  Mind  displayed 
in  endless  forms.  But  neither  sense  nor  imagination  are  big 
enough  to  comprehend  the  boundless  extent,  with  all  its  glitter- 
ing furniture.  Though  the  laboring  mind  exert  and  strain  each 
power  to  its  utmost  reach,  there  still  stands  out  ungrasped  a 
surplusage  immeasurable.  Yet  all  the  vast  bodies  that  compose 
this  mighty  frame,  how  distant  and  remote  soever,  are  by  some 
secret  mechanism,  some  divine  art  and  force,  linked  in  a  mutual 
dependence  and  intercourse  with  each  other,  even  with  this 
earth,  which  was  almost  slipped  from  my  thoughts  and  lost  in 
the  crowd  of  worlds.  Is  not  the  whole  system  immense,  beauti- 
ful, glorious  beyond  expression  and  beyond  thought!  What 
treatment,  then,  do  those  philosophers  deserve,  who  would 
deprive  these  noble  and  delightful  scenes  of  all  reality?  How 
should  those  principles  be  entertained  that  lead  us  to  think  all 
the  visible  beauty  of  the  creation  a  false  imaginary  glare?  To 
be  plain,  can  you  expect  this  skepticism  of  yours  will  not  be 
thought  extravagantly  absurd  by  all  men  of  sense? 

Hylas.  Other  men  may  think  as  they  please,  but  for  your 
part  you  have  nothing  to  reproach  me  with.  My  comfort  is,  you 
are  as  much  a  skeptic  as  I  am. 

Philonous.  There,  Hylas,  I  must  beg  leave  to  differ  from  you. 

Hylas.  What!  Have  you  all  along  agreed  to  the  premises, 
and  do  you  now  deny  the  conclusion,  and  leave  me  to  maintain 
those  paradoxes  by  myself  which  you  led  me  into?  This  surely 
is  not  fair. 

Philonous.  I  deny  that  I  agreed  with  you  in  those  notions 
that  led  to  skepticism.  You  indeed  said  the  reality  of  sensible 
things  consisted  in  an  absolute  existence  out  of  the  minds  of 
spirits,  or  distinct  from  their  being  perceived.  And,  pursuant 
to  this  notion  of  reality,  you  are  obliged  to  deny  sensible  things 


DIALOGUES  243 

any  real  existence;  that  is,  according  to  your  own  definition, 
you  profess  yourself  a  skeptic.  But  I  neither  said  nor  thought 
the  reality  of  sensible  things  was  to  be  denned  after  that  man- 
ner. To  me  it  is  evident,  for  the  reasons  you  allow  of,  that  sen- 
sible things  cannot  exist  otherwise  than  in  a  mind  or  spirit. 
Whence  I  conclude,  not  that  they  have  no  real  existence,  but 
that,  seeing  they  depend  not  on  my  thought,  and  have  an  ex- 
istence distinct  from  being  perceived  by  me,  there  must  be  some 
other  mind  wherein  they  exist.  As  sure,  therefore,  as  the  sensible 
world  really  exists,  so  sure  is  there  an  infinite,  omnipresent 
Spirit,  who  contains  and  supports  it. 

Hylas.  What!  This  is  no  more  than  I  and  all  Christians 
hold;  nay,  and  all  others  too  who  believe  there  is  a  God,  and 
that  He  knows  and  comprehends  all  things. 

Philonous.  Aye,  but  here  lies  the  difference.  Men  commonly 
believe  that  all  things  are  known  or  perceived  by  God,  because 
they  believe  the  being  of  a  God ;  whereas  I,  on  the  other  side, 
immediately  and  necessarily  conclude  the  being  of  a  God,  be- 
cause all  sensible  things  must  be  perceived  by  Him. 

Hylas.  ...  It  is  plain  I  do  not  now  think  with  the  philoso- 
phers, nor  yet  altogether  with  the  vulgar.  I  would  know  how 
the  case  stands  in  that  respect;  precisely  what  you  have  added 
to  or  altered  in  my  former  notions. 

Philonous.  1  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  setter-up  of  new  notions. 
My  endeavors  tend  only  to  unite  and  place  in  a  clearer  light 
that  truth  which  was  before  shared  between  the  vulgar  and  the 
philosophers,  —  the  former  being  of  opinion  that  those  things 
they  immediately  perceive  are  the  real  things,  and  the  latter, 
that  the  things  immediately  perceived  are  ideas  which  exist 
only  in  the  mind.  Which  two  notions,  put  together,  do  in  effect 
constitute  the  substance  of  what  I  advance. 

Hylas.  I  have  been  a  long  time  distrusting  my  senses;  me- 
thought  I  saw  things  by  a  dim  light  and  through  false  glasses. 
Now  the  glasses  are  removed,  and  a  new  light  breaks  in  upon 
my  understanding.  I  am  clearly  convinced  that  I  see  things  in 
their  native  forms,  and  am  no  longer  in  pain  about  their  un- 
known natures  or  absolute  existence.  This  is  the  state  I  find 
myself  in  at  present;  though,  indeed,  the  course  that  brought 
me  to  it  I  do  not  yet  thoroughly  comprehend.  You  set  out 


244  GEORGE  BERKELEY 

upon  the  same  principles  that  Academics,  Cartesians,  and  the 
like  sects  usually  do,  and  for  a  long  time  it  looked  as  if  you 
were  advancing  their  philosophical  skepticism;  but  in  the  end 
your  conclusions  are  directly  opposite  to  theirs. 

Philonous.  You  see,  Hylas,  the  water  of  yonder  fountain,  — 
how  it  is  forced  upwards,  in  a  round  column,  to  a  certain  height, 
at  which  it  breaks,  and  falls  back  into  the  basin  from  whence  it 
rose;  its  ascent  as  well  as  descent  proceeding  from  the  same  uni- 
form law  or  principle  of  gravitation.  Just  so,  the  same  princi- 
ples which  at  first  view  lead  to  skepticism,  pursued  to  a  certain 
point,  bring  men  back  to  common  sense. 


BERNARD   MANDEVILLE 
THE   FABLE  OF  THE   BEES 

OR,  PRIVATE   VICES   PUBLIC   BENEFITS 
1714,    1723 

[The  Fable  of  the  Bees  is  a  composite  work,  consisting  of  "The  Grum- 
bling Hive,"  a  poem  which  had  been  separately  published  in  1705,  the  "In- 
quiry into  the  Origin  of  Moral  Virtue"  (which  appeared  in  the  1714  vol- 
ume), the  "Search  into  the  Nature  of  Society"  (which  was  added  hi  1723), 
and  other  Essays  and  Remarks.  The  book  was  denounced  as  a  nuisance 
by  the  Grand  Jury  of  Middlesex,  in  1723,  and  many  replies  to  it  were  pub- 
lished, —  by  Berkeley,  among  others,  in  Alciphron.  Some  of  the  positions 
of  Shaftesbury  which  Mandeville  attacks  in  detail  will  be  found  repre- 
sented in  the  extracts  from  Characteristics;  see  above,  pages  223-230.] 

AN  INQUIRY  INTO  THE   ORIGIN  OF  MORAL  VIRTUE 

ALL  untaught  animals  are  only  solicitous  of  pleasing  them- 
selves, and  naturally  follow  the  bent  of  their  own  inclinations, 
without  considering  the  good  or  harm  that  from  their  being 
pleased  will  accrue  to  others.  This  is  the  reason  that  in  the  wild 
state  of  nature  those  creatures  are  fittest  to  live  peaceably  to- 
gether in  great  numbers  that  discover  the  least  of  understand- 
ing, and  have  the  fewest  appetites  to  gratify;  and  consequently 
no  species  of  animals  is,  without  the  curb  of  government,  less 
capable  of  agreeing  long  together  in  multitudes  than  that  of 
man.  Yet  such  are  his  qualities,  whether  good  or  bad  I  shall 
not  determine,  that  no  creature  besides  himself  can  ever  be 
made  sociable;  but  being  an  extraordinary  selfish  and  head- 
strong, as  well  as  cunning  animal,  however  he  may  be  sub- 
dued by  superior  strength,  it  is  impossible  by  force  alone 
to  make  him  tractable,  and  receive  the  improvements  he  is 
capable  of. 

The  chief  thing,  therefore,  which  lawgivers  and  other  wise 
men  that  have  labored  for  the  establishment  of  society,  have 
endeavored,  has  been  to  make  the  people  they  were  to  govern 
believe  that  it  was  more  beneficial  for  everybody  to  conquer 
than  indulge  his  appetites,  and  much  better  to  mind  the  public 


246  BERNARD  MANDEVILLE 

than  what  seemed  his  private  interest.  As  this  has  always  been 
a  very  difficult  task,  so  no  wit  or  eloquence  has  been  left  untried 
to  compass  it,  and  the  moralists  and  philosophers  of  all  ages 
employed  their  utmost  skill  to  prove  the  truth  of  so  useful  an 
assertion.  But  whether  mankind  would  have  ever  believed  it  or 
not,  it  is  not  likely  that  anybody  could  have  persuaded  them  to 
disapprove  of  their  natural  inclinations,  or  prefer  the  good  of 
others  to  their  own,  if  at  the  same  time  he  had  not  showed  them 
an  equivalent  to  be  enjoyed  as  a  reward  for  the  violence  which 
by  so  doing  they  of  necessity  must  commit  upon  themselves. 
Those  that  have  undertaken  to  civilize  mankind  were  not  igno- 
rant of  this;  but  being  unable  to  give  so  many  real  rewards  as 
would  satisfy  all  persons  for  every  individual  action,  they  were 
forced  to  contrive  an  imaginary  one,  that  as  a  general  equiva- 
lent for  the  trouble  of  self-denial  should  serve  on  all  occasions, 
and,  without  costing  anything  either  to  themselves  or  others, 
be  yet  a  most  acceptable  recompense  to  the  receivers. 

They  thoroughly  examined  all  the  strength  and  frailties  of 
our  nature,  and,  observing  that  none  were  either  so  savage  as 
not  to  be  charmed  with  praise,  or  so  despicable  as  patiently  to 
bear  contempt,  justly  concluded  that  flattery  must  be  the  most 
powerful  argument  that  could  be  used  to  human  creatures. 
Making  use  of  this  bewitching  engine,  they  extolled  the  excel- 
lency of  our  nature  above  other  animals,  and,  setting  forth 
with  unbounded  praises  the  wonders  of  our  sagacity  and  vast- 
ness  of  understanding,  bestowed  a  thousand  encomiums  on  the 
rationality  of  our  souls,  by  the  help  of  which  we  were  capable 
of  performing  the  most  noble  achievements.  Having  by  this 
artful  way  of  flattery  insinuated  themselves  into  the  hearts  of 
men,  they  began  to  instruct  them  in  the  notions  of  honor  and 
shame;  representing  the  one  as  the  worst  of  all  evils,  and  the 
other  as  the  highest  good  to  which  mortals  could  aspire.  Which 
being  done,  they  laid  before  them  how  unbecoming  it  was  the 
dignity  of  such  sublime  creatures  to  be  solicitous  about  grati- 
fying those  appetites  which  they  had  in  common  with  brutes, 
and  at  the  same  time  unmindful  of  those  higher  qualities 
that  gave  them  the  preeminence  over  all  visible  things.  They 
indeed  confessed  that  those  impulses  of  nature  were  very  press- 
ing, that  it  was  troublesome  to  resist,  and  very  difficult  wholly 
to  subdue  them.  But  this  they  only  used  as  an  argument  to 


THE  FABLE  OF  THE  BEES  247 

demonstrate  how  glorious  the  conquest  of  them  was,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  how  scandalous,  on  the  other,  not  to  attempt  it. 

To  introduce,  moreover,  an  emulation  amongst  men,  they 
divided  the  whole  species  into  two  classes,  vastly  differing  from 
one  another.  The  one  consisted  of  abject,  low-minded  people, 
that,  always  hunting  after  immediate  enjoyment,  were  wholly 
incapable  of  self-denial,  and,  without  regard  to  the  good  of 
others,  had  no  higher  aim  than  their  private  advantage;  such  as, 
being  enslaved  by  voluptuousness,  yielded  without  resistance 
to  every  gross  desire,  and  made  no  use  of  their  rational  faculties 
but  to  heighten  their  sensual  pleasure.  These  vile  groveling 
wretches,  they  said,  were  the  dross  of  their  kind,  and,  having 
only  the  shape  of  men,  differed  from  brutes  in  nothing  but 
their  outward  figure.  But  the  other  class  was  made  up  of  lofty, 
high-spirited  creatures,  that,  free  from  sordid  selfishness,  es- 
teemed the  improvements  of  the  mind  to  be  their  fairest  pos- 
sessions, and,  setting  a  true  value  upon  themselves,  took  no 
delight  but  in  embellishing  that  part  in  which  their  excellency 
consisted;  such  as,  despising  whatever  they  had  in  common 
with  irrational  creatures,  opposed  by  the  help  of  reason  their 
most  violent  inclinations,  and,  making  a  continual  war  with 
themselves  to  promote  the  peace  of  others,  aimed  at  no  less 
than  the  public  welfare  and  the  conquest  of  their  own  passion, 

Fortior  est  qui  se  quam  qui  fortissimo  vincit 

Mcenia.1 

These  they  called  the  true  representatives  of  their  sublime 
species,  exceeding  in  worth  the  first  class  by  more  degrees  than 
that  itself  was  superior  to  the  beasts  of  the  field.  .  .  . 

This  was  (or  at  least  might  have  been)  the  manner  after 
which  savage  man  was  broke ;  from  whence  it  is  evident  that  the 
first  rudiments  of  morality,  broached  by  skillful  politicians  to 
render  men  useful  to  each  other  as  well  as  tractable,  were 
chiefly  contrived  that  the  ambitious  might  reap  the  more  bene- 
fit from,  and  govern  vast  numbers  of,  them,  with  the  greater 
ease  and  security.  This  foundation  of  politics  being  once  laid, 
it  is  impossible  that  man  should  long  remain  uncivilized;  for 
even  those  who  only  strove  to  gratify  their  appetites,  being 
continually  crossed  by  others  of  the  same  stamp,  could  not  but 
observe  that,  whenever  they  checked  their  inclinations,  or  but 

1  ''  He  who  conquers  himself  is  stronger  than  he  who  overcomes  the  strongest  walls." 


248  BERNARD  MANDEVILLE 

followed  them  with  more  circumspection,  they  avoided  a  world 
of  troubles,  and  often  escaped  many  of  the  calamities  that 
generally  attended  the  too  eager  pursuit  after  pleasure. 

First,  they  received,  as  well  as  others,  the  benefit  of  those 
actions  that  were  done  for  the  good  of  the  whole  society,  and 
consequently  could  not  forbear  wishing  well  to  those  of  the  su- 
perior class  that  performed  them.  Secondly,  the  more  intent 
they  were  in  seeking  their  own  advantage  without  regard  to 
others,  the  more  they  were  hourly  convinced  that  none  stood 
so  much  in  their  way  as  those  that  were  most  like  themselves. 

It  being  the  interest,  then,  of  the  very  worst  of  them,  more 
than  any,  to  preach  up  public-spiritedness,  that  they  might 
reap  the  fruits  of  the  labor  and  self-denial  of  others,  and  at  the 
same  time  indulge  their  own  appetites  with  less  disturbance, 
they  agreed  with  the  rest  to  call  everything  which,  without  re- 
gard to  the  public,  man  should  commit  to  gratify  any  of  his 
appetites,  VICE,  if  in  that  action  there  could  be  observed  the 
least  prospect  that  it  might  either  be  injurious  to  any  of  the 
society  or  ever  render  himself  less  serviceable  to  others;  and  to 
give  the  name  of  VIRTUE  to  every  performance  by  which  man, 
contrary  to  the  impulse  of  nature,  should  endeavor  the  benefit 
of  others  or  the  conquest  of  his  own  passions,  out  of  a  rational 
ambition  of  being  good.  .  .  . 

It  is  visible,  then,  that  it  was  not  any  heathen  religion  or 
other  idolatrous  superstition  that  first  put  man  upon  crossing 
his  appetites  and  subduing  his  dearest  inclinations,  but  the  skill- 
ful management  of  wary  politicians;  and  the  nearer  we  search 
into  human  nature,  the  more  we  shall  be  convinced  that  the 
moral  virtues  are  the  political  offspring  which  Flattery  begot 
upon  Pride. 

There  is  no  man,  of  what  capacity  or  penetration  soever, 
that  is  wholly  proof  against  the  witchcraft  of  flattery,  if  artfully 
performed  and  suited  to  his  abilities.  Children  and  fools  will 
swallow  personal  praise,  but  those  that  are  more  cunning  must 
be  managed  with  greater  circumspection,  and  the  more  general 
the  flattery  is,  the  less  it  is  suspected  by  those  it  is  leveled  at. 
What  you  say  in  commendation  of  a  whole  town  is  received 
with  pleasure  by  all  the  inhabitants;  speak  in  commendation 
of  letters  in  general,  and  every  man  of  learning  will  think  him- 
self in  particular  obliged  to  you.  You  may  safely  praise  the 


THE  FABLE  OF  THE  BEES       249 

employment  a  man  is  of,  or  the  country  he  was  born  in,  because 
you  give  him  an  opportunity  of  screening  the  joy  he  feels  upon 
his  own  account,  under  the  esteem  which  he  pretends  to  have 
for  others. 

It  is  common  among  cunning  men,  that  understand  the 
power  which  flattery  has  upon  pride,  when  they  are  afraid  they 
shall  be  imposed  upon,  to  enlarge,  though  much  against  their 
conscience,  upon  the  honor,  fair  dealing,  and  integrity  of  the 
family,  country,  or  sometimes  the  profession  of  him  they  sus- 
pect; because  they  know  that  men  often  will  change  their  reso- 
lution, and  act  against  their  inclination,  that  they  may  have 
the  pleasure  of  continuing  to  appear,  in  the  opinion  of  some, 
what  they  are  conscious  not  to  be  in  reality.  Thus  sagacious 
moralists  draw  men  like  angels,  in  hopes  that  the  pride  at  least 
of  some  will  put  them  upon  copying  after  the  beautiful  originals 
which  they  are  represented  to  be. 

When  the  incomparable  Sir  Richard  Steele,  in  the  usual  ele- 
gance of  his  easy  style,  dwells  on  the  praises  of  his  sublime  spe- 
cies, and  with  all  the  embellishments  of  rhetoric  sets  forth  the 
excellency  of  human  nature,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  charmed 
with  his  happy  turns  of  thought  and  the  politeness  of  his  ex- 
pressions. But,  though  I  have  been  often  moved  by  the  force 
of  his  eloquence,  and  ready  to  swallow  the  ingenious  sophistry 
with  pleasure,  yet  I  could  never  be  so  serious  but,  reflecting  on 
his  artful  encomiums,  I  thought  on  the  tricks  made  use  of  by 
the  women  that  would  teach  children  to  be  mannerly.  When  an 
awkward  girl,  before  she  can  either  speak  or  go,  begins  after 
many  entreaties  to  make  the  first  rude  essays  of  curtesying,  the 
nurse  falls  in  an  ecstasy  of  praise.  "  There 's  a  delicate  curtesy ! 
O  fine  Miss!  There 's  a  pretty  lady!  Mamma!  Miss  can  make 
a  better  curtesy  than  her  sister  Molly!"  The  same  is  echoed 
over  by  the  maids,  whilst  mamma  almost  hugs  the  child  to 
pieces;  only  Miss  Molly,  who,  being  four  years  older,  knows  how 
to  make  a  very  handsome  curtesy,  wonders  at  the  perverseness 
of  their  judgment,  and,  swelling  with  indignation,  is  ready  to 
cry  at  the  injustice  that  is  done  her,  till,  being  whispered  in  the 
ear  that  it  is  only  to  please  the  baby,  and  that  she  is  a  woman, 
she  grows  proud  at  being  let  into  the  secret,  and,  rejoicing  at  the 
superiority  of  her  understanding,  repeats  what  has  been  said 
with  large  additions,  and  insults  over  the  weakness  of  her  sister, 


250  BERNARD   MANDEVILLE 

whom  all  this  while  she  fancies  to  be  the  only  bubble  among 
them.  These  extravagant  praises  would,  by  any  one  above  the 
capacity  of  an  infant,  be  called  fulsome  flatteries,  and  (if  you 
will)  abominable  lies;  yet  experience  teaches  us  that  by  the 
help  of  such  gross  encomiums  young  misses  will  be  brought  to 
make  pretty  curtesies  and  behave  themselves  womanly,  much 
sooner  and  with  less  trouble  than  they  would  without  them. 
'T  is  the  same  with  boys,  whom  they  '11  strive  to  persuade  that 
all  fine  gentlemen  do  as  they  are  bid,  and  that  none  but  beggar 
boys  are  rude  or  dirty  their  clothes;  nay,  as  soon  as  the  wild 
brat  with  his  untaught  fist  begins  to  fumble  for  his  hat,  the 
mother,  to  make  him  pull  it  off,  tells  him  before  he  is  two  years 
old  that  he  is  a  man,  and,  if  he  repeats  that  action  when  she 
desires  him,  he 's  presently  a  captain,  a  Lord  Mayor,  a  king,  or 
something  higher  if  she  can  think  of  it,  till,  egged  on  by  the 
force  of  praise,  the  little  urchin  endeavors  to  imitate  man  as 
well  as  he  can,  and  strains  all  his  faculties  to  appear  what  his 
shallow  noddle  imagines  he  is  believed  to  be. 

The  meanest  wretch  puts  an  inestimable  value  upon  himself, 
and  the  highest  wish  of  the  ambitious  man  is  to  have  all  the 
world,  as  to  that  particular,  of  his  opinion.  So  that  the  most 
insatiable  thirst  after  fame  that  ever  hero  was  inspired  with,  was 
never  more  than  an  ungovernable  greediness  to  engross  the 
esteem  and  admiration  of  others  in  future  ages  as  well  as  his 
own;  and  (what  mortification  soever  this  truth  might  be  to  the 
second  thoughts  of  an  Alexander  or  a  Caesar)  the  great  recom- 
pense in  view,  for  which  the  most  exalted  minds  have  with  so 
much  alacrity  sacrificed  their  quiet,  health,  sensual  pleasures, 
and  every  inch  of  themselves,  has  never  been  anything  else  but 
the  breath  of  man,  the  aerial  coin  of  praise.  .  .  . 

A  SEARCH  INTO  THE  NATURE  OF  SOCIETY 

The  generality  of  moralists  and  philosophers  have  hitherto 
agreed  that  there  could  be  no  virtue  without  self-denial;  but  a 
late  author,  who  is  now  much  read  by  men  of  sense,  is  of  a  con- 
trary opinion,  and  imagines  that  men,  without  any  trouble  or 
violence  upon  themselves,  may  be  naturally  virtuous.  He  seems 
to  require  and  expect  goodness  in  his  species,  as  we  do  a  sweet 
taste  in  grapes  and  China  oranges,  of  which,  if  any  of  them  are 
sour,  we  boldly  pronounce  that  they  are  not  come  to  that  per- 


THE  FABLE  OF  THE  BEES       251 

faction  their  nature  is  capable  of.  This  noble  writer  (for  it  is  the 
Lord  Shaftesbury  I  mean,  in  his  Characteristics)  fancies  that, 
as  man  is  made  for  society,  so  he  ought  to  be  born  with  a  kind 
affection  to  the  whole  of  which  he  is  a  part,  and  a  propensity  to 
seek  the  welfare  of  it.  In  pursuance  of  this  supposition,  he  calls 
every  action  performed  with  regard  to  the  public  good,  virtuous, 
and  all  selfishness,  wholly  excluding  such  a  regard,  vice.  In 
respect  to  our  species  he  looks  upon  virtue  and  vice  as  perma- 
nent realities,  that  must  ever  be  the  same  in  all  countries  and 
ages,  and  imagines  that  a  man  of  sound  understanding,  by  fol- 
lowing the  rules  of  good  sense,  may  not  only  find  out  that  pul- 
ckrum  et  honestum  both  in  morality  and  the  works  of  art  and 
nature,  but  likewise  govern  himself  by  his  reason  with  as  much 
ease  and  readiness  as  a  good  rider  manages  a  well-taught  horse 
by  the  bridle. 

The  attentive  reader,  who  perused  the  foregoing  part  of  this 
book,  will  soon  perceive  that  two  systems  cannot  be  more  oppo- 
site than  his  Lordship's  and  mine.  His  notions,  I  confess,  are 
generous  and  refined;  they  are  a  high  compliment  to  human- 
kind, and  capable,  by  the  help  of  a  little  enthusiasm,  of  inspiring 
us  with  the  most  noble  sentiments  concerning  the  dignity  of  our 
exalted  nature.  What  pity  it  is  that  they  are  not  true !  I  would 
not  advance  thus  much  if  I  had  not  already  demonstrated,  in 
almost  every  page  of  this  treatise,  that  the  solidity  of  them  is 
inconsistent  with  our  daily  experience.  But,  to  leave  not  the 
least  shadow  of  an  objection  that  might  be  made  unanswered, 
I  design  to  expatiate  on  some  things  which  hitherto  I  have  but 
slightly  touched  upon,  in  order  to  convince  the  reader,  not  only 
that  the  good  and  amiable  qualities  of  man  are  not  those  that 
make  him  beyond  other  animals  a  sociable  creature,  but,  more- 
over, that  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  either  to  raise  any 
multitudes  into  a  populous,  rich,  and  flourishing  nation,  or, 
when  so  raised,  to  keep  and  maintain  them  in  that  condition, 
without  the  assistance  of  what  we  call  evil,  both  natural  and 
moral. 

The  better  to  perform  what  I  have  undertaken,  I  shall  pre- 
viously examine  into  the  reality  of  the  pulchrum  et  honestum, 
the  TO  KaXov  that  the  ancients  have  talked  of  so  much.  The 
meaning  of  this  is  to  discuss  whether  there  be  a  real  worth  and 
excellency  in  things,  a  preeminence  of  one  above  another, 


252  BERNARD  MANDEVILLE 

which  everybody  will  always  agree  to  that  well  understands 
them,  or  that  there  are  few  things,  if  any,  that  have  the  same 
esteem  paid  them,  and  which  the  same  judgment  is  passed  upon, 
in  all  countries  and  all  ages.  When  we  first  set  out  in  quest  of 
this  intrinsic  worth,  and  find  one  thing  better  than  another,  and 
a  third  better  than  that,  and  so  on,  we  begin  to  entertain  great 
hopes  of  success;  but  when  we  meet  with  several  things  that  are 
all  very  good  or  all  very  bad,  we  are  puzzled,  and  agree  not  al- 
ways with  ourselves,  much  less  with  others.  There  are  different 
faults,  as  well  as  beauties,  that,  as  modes  and  fashions  alter, 
and  men  vary  in  their  tastes  and  humors,  will  be  differently 
admired  or  disapproved  of. 

Judges  of  painting  will  never  disagree  in  opinion,  when  a  fine 
picture  is  compared  to  the  daubing  of  a  novice ;  but  how  strangely 
have  they  differed  as  to  the  works  of  eminent  masters!  There 
are  parties  among  connoisseurs,  and  few  of  them  agree  in  their 
esteem  as  to  ages  and  countries;  and  the  best  pictures  bear  not 
always  the  best  prices:  a  noted  original  will  be  ever  worth  more 
than  any  copy  that  can  be  made  of  it  by  an  unknown  hand, 
though  it  should  be  better.  The  value  that  is  set  on  paintings 
depend  snot  only  on  the  name  of  the  master,  and  the  time  of  his 
age  he  drew  them  in,  but  likewise  in  a  great  measure  on  the 
scarcity  of  his  works,  and — what  is  still  more  unreasonable  — 
the  quality  of  the  persons  in  whose  possession  they  are,  as  well 
as  the  length  of  time  they  have  been  in  great  families.  And  if 
the  cartoons  now  at  Hampton  Court  were  done  by  a  less  famous 
hand  than  that  of  Raphael,  and  had  a  private  person  for  their 
owner,  who  would  be  forced  to  sell  them,  they  would  never 
yield  the  tenth  part  of  the  money  which,  with  all  their  gross 
faults,  they  are  now  esteemed  to  be  worth.  .  .  . 

In  morals  there  is  no  greater  certainty.  Plurality  of  wives  is 
odious  among  Christians,  and  all  the  wit  and  learning  of  a  great 
genius  in  defense  of  it  has  been  rejected  with  contempt;  but 
polygamy  is  not  shocking  to  a  Mahometan.  What  men  have 
learned  from  their  infancy  enslaves  them,  and  the  force  of  cus- 
tom warps  nature,  and  at  the  same  time  imitates  her  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  is  often  difficult  to  know  which  of  the  two  we  are 
influenced  by.  In  the  East  formerly  sisters  married  brothers, 
and  it  was  meritorious  for  a  man  to  marry  his  mother.  Such  al- 
liances are  abominable;  but  it  is  certain  that,  whatever  horror 


THE  FABLE  OF  THE  BEES  253 

we  conceive  at  the  thoughts  of  them,  there  is  nothing  in  nature 
repugnant  against  them,  but  what  is  built  upon  mode  and  cus- 
tom. A  religious  Mahometan,  that  has  never  tasted  any  spirit- 
uous liquor,  and  has  often  seen  people  drunk,  may  receive  as 
great  an  aversion  against  wine  as  another  with  us,  of  the  least 
morality  and  education,  may  have  against  marrying  his  sister, 
and  both  imagine  that  their  antipathy  proceeds  from  nature. 
Which  is  the  best  religion?  is  a  question  that  has  caused  more 
mischief  than  all  other  questions  together.  Ask  it  at  Peking,  at 
Constantinople,  and  at  Rome,  and  you'll  receive  three  distinct 
answers  extremely  different  from  one  another,  yet  all  of  them 
equally  positive  and  peremptory.  Christians  are  well  assured 
of  the  falsity  of  the  pagan  and  Mahometan  superstitions;  as  to 
this  point  there  is  a  perfect  union  and  concord  among  them ;  but 
inquire  of  the  several  sects  they  are  divided  into,  Which  is  the 
true  Church  of  Christ?  and  all  of  them  will  tell  you  it  is  theirs, 
and,  to  convince  you,  go  together  by  the  ears. 

It  is  manifest,  then,  that  the  hunting  after  this  pulchrum  et 
honestum  is  not  much  better  than  a  wild-goose  chase  that  is  but 
little  to  be  depended  upon.  But  this  is  not  the  greatest  fault  I 
find  with  it.  The  imaginary  notions  that  men  may  be  virtuous 
without  self-denial  are  a  vast  inlet  to  hypocrisy,  which  being 
once  made  habitual,  we  must  not  only  deceive  others,  but  like- 
wise become  altogether  unknown  to  ourselves;  and  in  an  in- 
stance I  am  going  to  give,  it  will  appear  how,  for  want  of  duly 
examining  himself,  this  might  happen  to  a  person  of  quality  of 
parts  and  erudition,  —  one  every  way  resembling  the  author 
of  the  Characteristics  himself. 

A  man  that  has  been  brought  up  in  ease  and  affluence,  if  he 
is  of  a  quiet,  indolent  nature,  learns  to  shun  everything  that  is 
troublesome,  and  chooses  to  curb  his  passions  more  because  of 
the  inconveniencies  that  arise  from  the  eager  pursuit  after  plea- 
sure, and  the  yielding  to  all  the  demands  of  our  inclinations, 
than  any  dislike  he  has  to  sensual  enjoyments.  And  it  is  possi- 
ble that  a  person  educated  under  a  great  philosopher,1  who  was 
a  mild  and  good-natured  as  well  as  able  tutor,  may  in  such 
happy  circumstances  have  a  better  opinion  of  his  inward  state 
than  it  really  deserves,  and  believe  himself  virtuous  because  his 
passions  lie  dormant.  He  may  form  fine  notions  of  the  social 

i  John  Locke  (in  Shaftesbury's  case). 


254  BERNARD  MANDEVILLE 

virtues,  and  the  contempt  of  death,  write  well  of  them  in  his 
closet,  and  talk  eloquently  of  them  in  company;  but  you  shall 
never  catch  him  fighting  for  his  country,  or  laboring  to  retrieve 
any  national  losses.  A  man  that  deals  in  metaphysics  may 
easily  throw  himself  into  an  enthusiasm,  and  really  believe  that 
he  does  not  fear  death,  whilst  it  remains  out  of  sight.  But 
should  he  be  asked  why,  having  this  intrepidity,  either  from 
nature  or  acquired  by  philosophy,  he  did  not  follow  arms  when 
his  country  was  involved  in  war;  or,  when  he  saw  the  nation 
daily  robbed  by  those  at  the  helm,  and  the  affairs  of  the  exche- 
quer perplexed,  why  he  did  not  go  to  court,  and  make  use  of  all 
his  friends  and  interests  to  be  a  Lord  Treasurer,  that  by  his 
integrity  and  wise  management  he  might  restore  the  public 
credit,  —  it  is  probable  he  would  answer  that  he  loved  retire- 
ment, had  no  other  ambition  than  to  be  a  good  man,  and  never 
aspired  to  have  any  share  in  the  government,  or,  that  he  hated 
all  flattery  and  slavish  attendance,  the  insincerity  of  courts  and 
bustle  of  the  world.  I  am  willing  to  believe  him;  but  may  not  a 
man  of  an  indolent  temper  and  unactive  spirit  say — and  be  sin- 
cere in  —  all  this,  and  at  the  same  time  indulge  his  appetites  with- 
out being  able  to  subdue  them,  though  his  duty  summons  him  to 
it  ?  Virtue  consists  in  action,  and  whoever  is  possessed  of  this 
social  love  and  kind  affection  to  his  species,  and  by  his  birth  or 
quality  can  claim  any  post  in  the  public  management,  ought  not 
to  sit  still  when  he  can  be  serviceable,  but  exert  himself  to  the 
utmost  for  the  good  of  his  fellow-subjects.  Had  this  noble  per- 
son been  of  a  warlike  genius  or  a  boisterous  temper,  he  would 
have  chose  another  part  in  the  drama  of  life,  and  preached  a 
quite  contrary  doctrine;  for  we  are  ever  pushing  our  reason 
which  way  soever  we  feel  passion  to  draw  it,  and  self-love 
pleads  to  all  human  creatures  for  their  different  views,  still 
furnishing  every  individual  with  arguments  to  justify  their 
inclinations.  , 


LADY   MARY  WORTLEY   MONTAGU 
LETTERS 

[An  unauthorized  edition  of  Letters  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 
was  published  in  1763,  and  these  were  republished,  with  additions,  at 
various  dates,  to  the  time  of  the  edition  of  Mr.  Moy  Thomas,  1861.  The 
letters  from  the  East  (written  while  Lady  Mary's  husband  was  English 
ambassador  to  the  Porte)  were  given  by  her  to  a  Rev.  Mr.  Sowden;  and 
another  copy  (not  identical)  she  gave  to  Mr.  Molesworth.  It  has  been 
suspected  that  they  were  edited  before  being  copied,  or  in  some  cases 
made  from  diary  notes.  The  Sowden  text,  as  printed  by  Mr.  Thomas,  is 
used  here;  the  family  letters  were  also  printed  by  him  from  original  MSS. 
The  Countess  of  Bute  was  Lady  Mary's  daughter,  and  her  constant  cor- 
respondent during  her  long  residence  on  the  Continent,  1739-62.] 

TO  MR.   POPE 

ADRIANOPLE,  April  i,  1717. 

I  DARE  say  you  expect  at  least  something  very  new  in  this 
letter,  after  I  have  gone  a  journey  not  undertaken  by  any  Chris- 
tian for  some  hundred  years.  The  most  remarkable  accident 
that  happened  to  me,  was  my  being  very  near  overturned  into 
the  Hebrus;  and,  if  I  had  much  regard  for  the  glories  that  one's 
name  enjoys  after  death,  I  should  certainly  be  sorry  for  having 
missed  the  romantic  conclusion  of  swimming  down  the  same 
river  in  which  the  musical  head  of  Orpheus  repeated  verses  so 
many  ages  since.  .  .  .  Who  knows  but  some  of  your  bright  wits 
might  have  found  it  a  subject  affording  many  poetical  turns,  and 
have  told  the  world,  in  an  heroic  elegy,  that, 

As  equal  were  our  souls,  so  equal  were  our  fates? 

I  despair  of  ever  having  so  many  fine  things  said  of  me,  as  so 
extraordinary  a  death  would  have  given  occasion  for. 

I  am  at  this  present  writing  in  a  house  situated  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hebrus,  which  runs  under  my  chamber  window-  My 
garden  is  full  of  tall  cypress-trees,  upon  the  branches  of  which 
several  couple  of  true  turtles  are  saying  soft  things  to  one  an- 
other from  morning  till  night.  How  naturally  do  boughs  and 
vows  come  into  my  head  at  this  minute!  And  must  you  not 


256         LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 

confess,  to  my  praise,  that  'tis  more  than  ordinary  discretion 
that  can  resist  the  wicked  suggestions  of  poetry,  in  a  place 
where  truth,  for  once,  furnishes  all  the  ideas  of  pastoral?  The 
summer  is  already  far  advanced  in  this  part  of  the  world ;  and, 
for  some  miles  round  Adrianople,  the  whole  ground  is  laid  out 
in  gardens,  and  the  banks  of  the  river  set  with  rows  of  fruit- 
trees,  under  which  all  the  most  considerable  Turks  divert  them- 
selves every  evening;  —  not  with  walking,  —  that  is  not  one  of 
their  pleasures;  but  a  set  party  of  them  choose  out  a  green  spot, 
where  the  shade  is  very  thick,  and  there  they  spread  a  carpet, 
on  which  they  sit  drinking  their  coffee,  and  generally  attended 
by  some  slave  with  a  fine  voice,  or  that  plays  on  some  instru- 
ment. .  .  .  The  young  lads  generally  divert  themselves  with 
making  garlands  for  their  favorite  lambs,  which  I  have  often 
seen,  painted  and  adorned  with  flowers,  lying  at  their  feet  while 
they  sung  or  played.  It  is  not  that  they  ever  read  romances, 
but  these  are  the  ancient  amusements  here,  and  as  natural  to 
them  as  cudgel-playing  and  football  to  our  British  swains;  the 
softness  and  warmth  of  the  climate  forbidding  all  rough  exer- 
cises, which  were  never  so  much  as  heard  of  amongst  them,  and 
naturally  inspiring  a  laziness  and  aversion  to  labor,  which  the 
great  plenty  indulges.  ...  I  no  longer  look  upon  Theocritus 
as  a  romantic  writer ;  he  has  only  given  a  plain  image  of  the  way 
of  life  amongst  the  peasants  of  his  country,  who,  before  oppres- 
sion had  reduced  them  to  want,  were,  I  suppose,  all  employed 
as  the  better  sort  of  them  are  now.  I  don't  doubt,  had  he  been 
born  a  Briton,  his  Idylliums  had  been  filled  with  descriptions 
of  threshing  and  churning,  both  which  are  unknown  here,  the 
corn  being  all  trod  out  by  oxen,  and  butter  (I  speak  it  with 
sorrow)  unheard  of. 

I  read  over  your  Homer  here  with  an  infinite  pleasure,  and 
find  several  little  passages  explained,  that  I  did  not  before  en- 
tirely comprehend  the  beauty  of;  many  of  the  customs,  and 
much  of  the  dress  then  in  fashion,  being  yet  retained;  and  I 
don't  wonder  to  find  more  remains  here  of  an  age  so  distant, 
than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  country,  the  Turks  not  taking 
that  pains  to  introduce  their  own  manners  as  has  been  gene- 
rally practiced  by  other  nations  that  imagine  themselves  more 
polite. 


LETTERS  257 

TO  THE    COUNTESS    OF    MAR 

PERA  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE,  March  10,  1718. 

.  .  .  We  travelers  are  in  very  hard  circumstances.  If  we  say 
nothing  but  what  has  been  said  before  us,  we  are  dull,  and  we 
have  observed  nothing.  If  we  tell  anything  new,  we  are  laughed 
at  as  fabulous  and  romantic,  not  allowing  for  the  difference  of 
ranks,  which  afford  difference  of  company,  more  curiosity,  or  the 
change  of  customs,  that  happen  every  twenty  years  in  every 
country.  But  people  judge  of  travelers  exactly  with  the  same 
candor,  good  nature,  and  impartiality,  they  judge  of  their 
neighbors  upon  all  occasions.  For  my  part,  if  I  live  to  return 
amongst  you,  I  am  so  well  acquainted  with  the  morals  of  all 
my  dear  friends  and  acquaintance,  that  I  am  resolved  to  tell 
them  nothing  at  all,  to  avoid  the  imputation  (which  their  char- 
ity would  certainly  incline  them  to)  of  my  telling  too  much. 
But  I  depend  upon  your  knowing  me  enough  to  believe  what- 
ever I  seriously  assert  for  truth,  though  I  give  you  leave  to  be 
surprised  at  an  account  so  new  to  you. 

But  what  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  that  I  have  been  in  a 
harem  where  the  winter  apartment  was  wainscoted  with  inlaid 
work  of  mother-of-pearl,  ivory  of  different  colors,  and  olive 
wood,  exactly  like  the  little  boxes  you  have  seen  brought  out  of 
this  country;  and  those  rooms  designed  for  summer,  the  walls 
all  crusted  with  japan  china,  the  roofs  gilt,  and  the  floors  spread 
with  the  finest  Persian  carpets?  Yet  there  is  nothing  more 
true;  such  is  the  palace  of  my  lovely  friend,  the  fair  Fatima, 
whom  I  was  acquainted  with  at  Adrianople.  I  went  to  visit  her 
yesterday;  and,  if  possible,  she  appeared  to  me  handsomer  than 
before.  She  met  me  at  the  door  of  her  chamber,  and,  giving  me 
her  hand  with  the  best  grace  in  the  world,  —  "You  Christian 
ladies,"  said  she,  with  a  smile  that  made  her  as  handsome  as  an 
angel, "  have  the  reputation  of  inconstancy,  and  I  did  not  expect, 
whatever  goodness  you  expressed  for  me  at  Adrianople,  that  I 
should  ever  see  you  again.  But  I  am  now  convinced  that  I  have 
really  the  happiness  of  pleasing  you;  and  if  you  knew  how  I 
speak  of  you  amongst  our  ladies,  you  would  be  assured  that  you 
do  me  justice  if  you  think  me  your  friend."  She  placed  me  in 
the  corner  of  the  sofa,  and  I  spent  the  aiternoon  in  her  conver- 
sation, with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world. 


258         LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 

The  Sultana  Hafiten  is,  what  one  would  naturally  expect  to 
find  a  Turkish  lady,  willing  to  oblige,  but  not  knowing  how  to 
go  about  it;  and  it  is  easy  to  see  in  her  manner  that  she  has  lived 
'  secluded  from  the  world.  But  Fatima  has  all  the  politeness  and 
good  breeding  of  a  court,  with  an  air  that  inspires  at  once  re- 
spect and  tenderness;  and  now  I  understand  her  language,  I 
find  her  wit  as  engaging  as  her  beauty.  She  is  very  curious  after 
the  manners  of  other  countries,  and  has  not  that  partiality  for 
her  own,  so  common  to  little  minds.  ...  I  assured  her  that,  if 
all  the  Turkish  ladies  were  like  her,  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
to  confine  them  from  public  view,  for  the  repose  of  mankind; 
and  proceeded  to  tell  her  what  a  noise  such  a  face  as  hers  would 
make  in  London  or  Paris.  "I  can't  believe  you,"  replied  she, 
agreeably.  "  If  beauty  was  so  much  valued  in  your  country  as 
you  say,  they  would  never  have  suffered  you  to  leave  it."  Per- 
haps, dear  sister,  you  laugh  at  my  vanity  in  repeating  this  com- 
pliment; but  I  only  do  it  as  I  think  it  very  well  turned,  and 
give  it  you  as  an  instance  of  the  spirit  of  her  conversation. 

TO  THE  ABB£  CONTI 

CONSTANTINOPLE,  May  19,  1718. 

.  .  .  Thus  you  see,  sir,  these  people  are  not  so  unpolished  as 
we  represent  them.  'T  is  true  their  magnificence  is  of  a  different 
taste  from  ours,  and  perhaps  of  a  better.  I  am  almost  of  opin- 
ion they  have  a  right  notion  of  life,  while  they  consume  it  in 
music,  gardens,  wine,  and  delicate  eating,  —  while  we  are  tor- 
menting ourselves  with  some  scheme  of  politics,  or  studying 
some  science  to  which  we  can  never  attain,  or,  if  we  do,  cannot 
persuade  people  to  set  that  value  upon  it  we  do  ourselves.  'Tis 
certain  what  we  feel  and  see  is  properly  (if  anything  is  properly) 
our  own;  but  the  good  of  fame,  the  folly  of  praise,  hardly  pur- 
chased, and,  when  obtained,  a  poor  recompense  for  loss  of  time 
and  health.  We  die,  or  grow  old  and  decrepit,  before  we  can 
reap  the  fruit  of  our  labors.  Considering  what  short-lived,  weak 
animals  men  are,  is  there  any  study  so  beneficial  as  the  study 
of  present  pleasure?  I  dare  not  pursue  this  theme;  perhaps  I 
have  already  said  too  much,  but  I  depend  upon  the  true  know- 
ledge you  have  of  my  heart.  I  don't  expect  from  you  the  insipid 
railleries  I  should  suffer  from  another,  in  answer  to  this  letter. 
You  know  how  to  divide  the  idea  of  pleasure  from  that  of  vice, 


LETTERS  259 

and  they  are  only  mingled  in  the  heads  of  fools.  But  I  allow  you 
to  laugh  at  me  for  the  sensual  declaration  that  I  had  rather  be  a 
rich  effendi,  with  all  his  ignorance,  than  Sir  Isaac  Newton  with 
all  his  knowledge. 

TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  POMFRET 

[March,  1739.] 

...  At  the  last  warm  debate  in  the  House  of  Lords,  it  was 
unanimously  resolved  there  should  be  no  crowd  of  unnecessary 
auditors;  consequently  the  fair  sex  were  excluded,  and  the  gal- 
lery destined  to  the  sole  use  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Not- 
withstanding which  determination,  a  tribe  of  dames  resolved  to 
show  on  this  occasion  that  neither  men  nor  laws  could  resist 
them.  These  heroines  were  Lady  Huntingdon,  the  Duchess  of 
Queensberry,  the  Duchess  of  Ancaster,  Lady  Westmoreland, 
Lady  Cobham,  Lady  Charlotte  Edwin,  Lady  Archibald  Hamil- 
ton and  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Scott,  and  Mrs.  Pendarves,  and 
Lady  Frances  Saunderson.  I  am  thus  particular  in  their  names, 
since  I  look  upon  them  to  be  the  boldest  assertors,  and  most  re- 
signed sufferers  for  liberty,  I  ever  read  of.  They  presented  them- 
selves at  the  door  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  where  Sir 
William  Saunderson  respectfully  informed  them  the  Chancellor 
had  made  an  order  against  their  admittance.  The  Duchess  of 
Queensberry,  as  head  of  the  squadron,  pished  at  the  ill-breeding 
of  a  mere  lawyer,  and  desired  him  to  let  them  upstairs  privately. 
After  some  modest  refusals,  he  swore  by  G —  he  would  not  let 
them  in.  Her  Grace,  with  a  noble  warmth,  answered,  by  G — 
they  would  come  in,  in  spite  of  the  Chancellor  and  the  whole 
House.  This  being  reported,  the  Peers  resolved  to  starve  them 
out;  an  order  was  made  that  the  doors  should  not  be  opened 
until  they  had  raised  their  siege.  These  Amazons  now  showed 
themselves  qualified  for  the  duty  even  of  foot-soldiers;  they 
stood  there  till  five  in  the  afternoon,  every  now  and  then  play- 
ing volleys  of  thumps,  kicks,  and  raps  against  the  door,  with  so 
much  violence  that  the  speakers  in  the  House  were  scarce 
heard.  When  the  Lords  were  not  to  be  conquered  by  this,  the 
two  duchesses  (very  well  apprised  of  the  use  of  stratagems  in 
war)  commanded  a  dead  silence  of  half  an  hour;  and  the  Chan- 
cellor, who  thought  this  a  certain  proof  of  their  absence  —  the 
Commons  also  being  very  impatient  to  enter  —  gave  order  for 


260          LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 

the  opening  of  the  door;  upon  which  they  all  rushed  in,  pushed 
aside  their  competitors,  and  placed  themselves  in  the  front 
rows  of  the  gallery.  They  stayed  there  till  after  eleven,  when 
the  House  rose;  and  during  the  debate  gave  applause,  and 
showed  marks  of  dislike,  not  only  by  smiles  and  winks  (which 
have  always  been  allowed  in  these  cases),  but  by  noisy  laughs 
and  apparent  contempts, — which  is  supposed  the  true  reason 
why  poor  Lord  Hervey  spoke  miserably.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
dear  madam,  for  this  long  relation;  but  'tis  impossible  to  be 
short  on  so  copious  a  subject;  and  you  must  own  this  action 
very  well  worthy  of  record,  and  I  think  not  to  be  paralleled  in 
history,  ancient  or  modern. 

TO  THE   COUNTESS   OF  BUTE 

[1748.] 

It  is  very  true,  my  dear  child,  we  cannot  now  maintain  a  fam- 
ily with  the  product  of  a  flock,  though  I  do  not  doubt  the  present 
sheep  afford  as  much  wool  and  milk  as  any  of  their  ancestors, 
and  it  is  certain  our  natural  wants  are  not  more  numerous  than 
formerly;  but  the  world  is  past  its  infancy,  and  will  no  longer 
be  contented  with  spoon  meat.  Time  has  added  great  improve- 
ments, but  those  very  improvements  have  introduced  a  train  of 
artificial  necessities.  A  collective  body  of  men  make  a  gradual 
progress  in  understanding,  like  that  of  a  single  individual.  When 
I  reflect  on  the  vast  increase  of  useful,  as  well  as  speculative, 
knowledge  the  last  three  hundred  years  has  produced,  and  that 
the  peasants  of  this  age  have  more  conveniences  than  the  first 
emperors  of  Rome  had  any  notion  of,  I  imagine  we  are  now  ar- 
rived at  that  period  which  answers  to  fifteen.  I  cannot  think 
we  are  older,  when  I  recollect  the  many  palpable  follies  which 
are  still  (almost)  universally  persisted  in.  I  place  that  of  war 
amongst  the  most  glaring,  being  fully  as  senseless  as  the  boxing 
of  schoolboys;  and  whenever  we  come  to  man's  estate,  —  per- 
haps a  thousand  years  hence,  —  I  do  not  doubt  it  will  appear  as 
ridiculous  as  the  pranks  of  unlucky  lads.  Several  discoveries 
will  then  be  made,  and  several  truths  made  clear,  of  which  we 
have  now  no  more  idea  than  the  ancients  had  of  the  circulation 
of  the  blood,  or  the  optics  of  Sir  I.  Newton. 


LETTERS  261 

January  28,  1753. 

You  have  given  me  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  by  your  ac- 
count of  your  eldest  daughter.  I  am  particularly  pleased  to 
hear  she  is  a  good  arithmetician;  it  is  the  best  proof  of  under- 
standing; the  knowledge  of  numbers  is  one  of  the  chief  distinc- 
tions between  us  and  the  brutes.  .  .  .  Every  woman  endeavors 
to  breed  her  daughter  a  fine  lady,  qualifying  her  for  a  station  in 
which  she  will  never  appear,  and  at  the  same  time  incapacitat- 
ing her  for  that  retirement  to  which  she  is  destined.  Learning,  if 
she  has  a  real  taste  for  it,  will  not  only  make  her  contented,  but 
happy  in  it.  No  entertainment  is  so  cheap  as  reading,  nor  any 
pleasure  so  lasting.  She  will  not  want  new  fashions,  nor  regret 
the  loss  of  expensive  diversions,  or  variety  of  company,  if  she 
can  be  amused  with  an  author  in  her  closet.  To  render  this 
amusement  extensive,  she  should  be  permitted  to  learn  the 
languages.  I  have  heard  it  lamented  that  boys  lose  so  many 
years  in  mere  learning  of  words;  this  is  no  objection  to  a  girl, 
whose  time  is  not  so  precious;  she  cannot  advance  herself  in  any 
profession,  and  has  therefore  more  hours  to  spare;  and  as  you 
say  her  memory  is  good,  she  will  be  very  agreeably  employed 
this  way.  There  are  two  cautions  to  be  given  on  this  subject: 
first,  not  to  think  herself  learned  when  she  can  read  Latin,  or 
even  Greek.  Languages  are  more  properly  to  be  called  vehicles 
of  learning  than  learning  itself,  as  may  be  observed  in  many 
schoolmasters,  who,  though  perhaps  critics  in  grammar,  are  the 
most  ignorant  fellows  upon  earth.  True  knowledge  consists  in 
knowing  things,  not  words.  I  would  wish  her  no  further  a  lin- 
guist than  to  enable  her  to  read  books  in  their  originals,  that 
are  often  corrupted,  and  always  injured,  by  translations.  Two 
hours'  application  every  morning  will  bring  this  about  much 
sooner  than  you  can  imagine,  and  she  will  have  leisure  enough 
besides  to  run  over  the  English  poetry,  which  is  a  more  impor- 
tant part  of  a  woman's  education  than  it  is  generally  supposed. 
Many  a  young  damsel  has  been  ruined  by  a  fine  copy  of  verses, 
which  she  would  have  laughed  at  if  she  had  known  it  had  been 
stolen  from  Mr.  Waller.  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  girl,  I  saved 
one  of  my  companions  from  destruction,  who  communicated  to 
me  an  epistle  she  was  quite  charmed  with.  As  she  had  a  natural 
good  taste,  she  observed  the  lines  were  not  so  smooth  as  Prior's 
or  Pope's,  but  had  more  thought  and  spirit  than  any  of  theirs. 


262         LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 

She  was  wonderfully  delighted  with  such  a  demonstration  of 
her  lover's  sense  and  passion,  and  not  a  little  pleased  with  her 
own  charms,  that  had  force  enough  to  inspire  such  elegancies. 
In  the  midst  of  this  triumph  I  showed  her  that  they  were  taken 
from  Randolph's  poems,  and  the  unfortunate  transcriber  was 
dismissed  with  the  scorn  he  deserved.  To  say  truth,  the  poor 
plagiary  was  very  unlucky  to  fall  into  my  hands;  that  author, 
being  no  longer  in  fashion,  would  have  escaped  any  one  of  less 
universal  reading  than  myself.  You  should  encourage  your 
daughter  to  talk  over  with  you  what  she  reads;  and,  as  you  are 
very  capable  of  distinguishing,  take  care  she  does  not  mistake 
pert  folly  for  wit  and  humor,  or  rhyme  for  poetry,  which  are  the 
common  errors  of  young  people,  and  have  a  train  of  ill  conse- 
quences. The  second  caution  to  be  given  her  (and  which  is  most 
absolutely  necessary)  is  to  conceal  whatever  learning  she  at- 
tains, with  as  much  solicitude  as  she  would  hide  crookedness 
or  lameness.  The  parade  of  it  can  only  serve  to  draw  on  her  the 
envy,  and  consequently  the  most  inveterate  hatred,  of  all  he  and 
she  fools,  which  will  certainly  be  at  least  three  parts  in  four  of 
all  her  acquaintance. 

March  6,  1753. 

I  cannot  help  writing  a  sort  of  apology  for  my  last  letter,  fore- 
seeing that  you  will  think  it  wrong,  or  at  least  Lord  Bute  will 
be  extremely  shocked  at  the  proposal  of  a  learned  education  for 
daughters,  which  the  generality  of  men  believe  as  great  a  pro- 
fanation as  the  clergy  would  do  if  the  laity  should  presume  to 
exercise  the  functions  of  the  priesthood.  I  desire  you  would 
take  notice,  I  would  not  have  learning  enjoined  them  as  a  task, 
but  permitted  as  a  pleasure,  if  their  genius  leads  them  naturally 
to  it.  ...  Whoever  will  cultivate  their  own  mind  will  find 
full  employment.  Every  virtue  does  not  only  require  great  care 
in  the  planting,  but  as  much  daily  solicitude  in  cherishing,  as 
exotic  fruits  and  flowers.  The  vices  and  passions  —  which  I  am 
afraid  are  the  natural  product  of  the  soil  —  demand  perpetual 
weeding.  Add  to  this  the  search  after  knowledge,  every  branch 
of  which  is  entertaining,  and  the  longest  life  is  too  short  for  the 
pursuit  of  it;  which,  though  in  some  regards  confined  to  very 
strait  limits,  leaves  still  a  vast  variety  of  amusements  to  those 
capable  of  tasting  them,  which  is  utterly  impossible  for  those 
blinded  by  prejudices  which  are  the  certain  effect  of  an  igno- 


LETTERS  263 

rant  education.  My  own  was  one  of  the  worst  in  the  world, 
being  exactly  the  same  as  Clarissa  Harlowe's;  her  pious  Mrs. 
Norton  so  perfectly  resembling  my  governess,  who  had  been 
nurse  to  my  mother,  I  could  almost  fancy  the  author  was  ac- 
quainted with  her.  She  took  so  much  pains,  from  my  infancy, 
to  fill  my  head  with  superstitious  tales  and  false  notions,  it  was 
none  of  her  fault  I  am  not  at  this  day  afraid  of  witches  and  hob- 
goblins, or  turned  Methodist.  Almost  all  girls  are  bred  after 
this  manner.  I  believe  you  are  the  only  woman  (perhaps  I 
might  say  person)  that  never  was  either  frighted  or  cheated  into 
anything  by  your  parents.  ...  I  could  give  many  examples 
of  ladies  whose  ill  conduct  has  been  very  notorious,  which  has 
been  owing  to  that  ignorance  which  has  exposed  them  to  idle- 
ness, which  is  justly  called  the  mother  of  mischief.  There  is 
nothing  so  like  the  education  of  a  woman  of  quality  as  that  of  a 
prince;  they  are  taught  to  dance,  and  the  exterior  part  of  what  is 
called  good  breeding,  which,  if  they  attain,  they  are  extraordi- 
nary creatures  in  their  kind,  and  have  all  the  accomplishments 
required  by  their  directors.  The  same  characters  are  formed  by 
the  same  lessons,  —  which  inclines  me  to  think  (if  I  dare  say  it) 
that  nature  has  not  placed  us  in  an  inferior  rank  to  men,  no 
more  than  the  females  of  other  animals,  where  we  see  no  distinc- 
tion of  capacity. 

Lovere,  [i7SSl- 

I  have  promised  you  some  remarks  on  all  the  books  I  have 
received.  I  believe  you  would  easily  forgive  my  not  keeping  my 
word;  however,  I  shall  go  on.  The  Rambler  is  certainly  a  strong 
misnomer;  he  always  plods  in  the  beaten  road  of  his  predeces- 
sors, following  the  Spectator  —  with  the  same  pace  a  pack- 
horse  would  do  a  hunter — in  the  style  that  is  proper  to  lengthen  a 
paper.  These  writers  may,  perhaps,  be  of  service  to  the  public, 
which  is  saying  a  great  deal  in  their  favor.  There  are  numbers  of 
both  sexes  who  never  read  anything  but  such  productions,  and 
cannot  spare  time  from  doing  nothing  to  go  through  a  sixpenny 
pamphlet.  Such  gentle  readers  may  be  improved  by  a  moral 
hint  which,  though  repeated  over  and  over  from  generation  to 
generation,  they  never  heard  in  their  lives.  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  the  name  of  this  laborious  author.  H.  Fielding  has  given 
a  true  picture  of  himself  and  his  first  wife  in  the  characters  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Booth,1  some  compliments  to  his  own  figure  ex- 

1  In  Amelia. 


264         LADY   MARY  WORTLEY   MONTAGU 

cepted;  and  I  am  persuaded  several  of  the  incidents  he  men- 
tions are  real  matters  of  fact.  I  wonder  he  does  not  perceive 
Tom  Jones  and  Mr.  Booth  are  sorry  scoundrels.  All  these  sort 
of  books  have  the  same  fault,  which  I  cannot  easily  pardon, 
being  very  mischievous.  They  place  a  merit  in  extravagant 
passions,  and  encourage  young  people  to  hope  for  impossible 
events,  to  draw  them  out  of  the  misery  they  chose  to  plunge 
themselves  into,  expecting  legacies  from  unknown  relations, 
and  generous  benefactors  to  distressed  virtue,  as  much  out  of 
nature  as  fairy  treasures.  Fielding  has  really  a  fund  of  true 
humor,  and  was  to  be  pitied  at  his  first  entrance  into  the  world 
having  no  choice,  as  he  said  himself,  but  to  be  a  hackney  writei 
or  a  hackney  coachman.  His  genius  deserved  a  better  fate;  but 
I  cannot  help  blaming  that  continued  indiscretion,  to  give  it  the 
softest  name,  that  has  run  through  his  life,  and  I  am  afraid  still 
remains.  .  >  .  The  general  want  of  invention  which  reigns 
among  our  writers  inclines  me  to  think  it  is  not  the  natural 
growth  of  our  island,  which  has  not  sun  enough  to  warm  the 
imagination.  The  press  is  loaded  by  the  servile  flock  of  imi- 
tators. .  .  .  Since  I  was  born,  no  original  has  appeared  ex- 
cepting .Congreve,  and  Fielding,  who  would,  I  believe,  have 
approached  nearer  to  his  excellences,  if  not  forced  by  necessity 
to  publish  without  correction,  and  throw  many  productions  into 
the  world  he  would  have  thrown  into  the  fire,  if  meat  could  have 
been  got  without  money,  or  money  without  scribbling.  The 
greatest  virtue,  justice,  and  the  most  distinguishing  preroga- 
tive of  mankind,  writing,  when  duly  executed,  do  honor  to 
human  nature;  but  when  degenerated  into  trades,  are  the  most 
contemptible  ways  of  getting  bread. 

September  22, 1755. 

...  I  am  sorry  for  H.  Fielding's  death,  not  only  as  I  shall 
read  no  more  of  his  writings,  but  I  believe  he  lost  more  than 
others,  as  no  man  enjoyed  life  more  than  he  did.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  great  similitude  between  his  character  and  that  of  Sir 
Richard  Steele.  He  had  the  advantage  both  in  learning  and 
— in  my  opinion — genius;  they  both  agreed  in  wanting  money 
in  spite  of  all  their  friends,  and  would  have  wanted  it,  if  their 
hereditary  lands  had  been  as  extensive  as  their  imagination; 
yet  each  of  them  was  so  formed  for  happiness,  it  is  pity  he  was 
not  immortal. 


ALEXANDER   POPE 
PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE 

1725 

[This  Preface  was  written  for  Pope's  edition  of  Shakespeare,  —  the  sec- 
ond of  the  eighteenth-century  editions.  The  extract  is  chiefly  from  the 
first  part,  beginning  with  the  third  paragraph.  With  the  concluding 
paragraph,  which  well  represents  the  judgment  of  Shakespeare  held  at 
this  period,  compare  the  simile  in  Johnson's  Preface,  page  385,  below.J 

...  IF  ever  any  author  deserved  the  name  of  an  original, 
it  was  Shakespeare.  Homer  himself  drew  not  his  art  so  imme- 
diately from  the  fountains  of  Nature;  it  proceeded  through 
Egyptian  strainers  and  channels,  and  came  to  him  not  without 
some  tincture  of  the  learning,  or  some  cast  of  the  models,  of 
those  before  him.  The  poetry  of  Shakespeare  was  inspiration 
indeed:  he  is  not  so  much  an  imitator,  as  an  instrument,  of 
Nature;  and  'tis  not  so  just  to  say  that  he  speaks  from  her,  as 
that  she  speaks  through  him. 

His  characters  are  so  much  Nature  herself,  that  'tis  a  sort  of 
injury  to  call  them  by  so  distant  a  name  as  copies  of  her.  Those 
of  other  poets  have  a  constant  resemblance,  which  shows  that 
they  received  them  from  one  another,  and  were  but  multipliers 
of  the  same  image:  each  picture,  like  a  mock  rainbow,  is  but  the 
reflection  of  a  reflection.  But  every  single  character  in  Shake- 
speare is  as  much  an  individual  as  those  in  life  itself;  it  is  as  im- 
possible to  find  any  two  alike;  and  such  as  from  their  relation  or 
affinity  appear  in  any  respect  most  to  be  twins,  will  upon  com- 
parison be  found  remarkably  distinct.  To  this  life  and  variety 
of  character  we  must  add  the  wonderful  preservation  of  it, 
which  is  such,  throughout  his  plays,  that  had  all  the  speeches 
been  printed  without  the  very  names  of  the  persons,  I  believe 
one  might  have  applied  them  with  certainty  to  every  speaker. 

The  power  over  our  passions  was  never  possessed  in  a  more 
eminent  degree,  or  displayed  in  so  different  instances.  Yet  all 
along  there  is  seen  no  labor,  no  pains  to  raise  them;  no  prepara- 
tion to  guide  our  guess  to  the  effect,  or  be  perceived  to  lead 


266  ALEXANDER  POPE 

toward  it;  but  the  heart  swells,  and  the  tears  burst  out,  just  at 
the  proper  places.  We  are  surprised  the  moment  we  weep,  and 
yet  upon  reflection  find  the  passion  so  just,  that  we  should  be 
surprised  if  we  had  not  wept,  and  wept  at  that  very  moment. 

How  astonishing  is  it,  again,  that  the  passions  directly  oppo- 
site to  these,  laughter  and  spleen,  are  no  less  at  his  command! 
that  he  is  not  more  a  master  of  the  great  than  of  the  ridiculous 
in  human  nature;  of  our  noblest  tendernesses  than  of  our  vain- 
est foibles;  of  our  strongest  emotions  than  of  our  idlest  sensa- 
tions! 

Nor  does  he  only  excel  in  the  passions.  In  the  coolness  of  re- 
flection and  reasoning  he  is  full  as  admirable.  His  sentiments 
are  not  only  in  general  the  most  pertinent  and  judicious  upon 
every  subject,  but,  by  a  talent  very  peculiar,  something  be- 
tween penetration  and  felicity,  he  hits  upon  that  particular 
point  on  which  the  bent  of  each  argument  turns,  or  the  force  of 
each  motive  depends.  This  is  perfectly  amazing,  from  a  man  of 
no  education  or  experience  in  those  great  and  public  scenes  of  life 
which  are  usually  the  subject  of  his  thoughts;  so  that  he  seems 
to  have  known  the  world  by  intuition,  to  have  looked  through 
human  nature  at  one  glance,  and  to  be  the  only  author  that 
gives  ground  for  a  very  new  opinion :  that  the  philosopher,  and 
even  the  man  of  the  world,  may  be  born,  as  well  as  the  poet. 

It  must  be  owned  that  with  all  these  great  excellencies  he  has 
almost  as  great  defects;  and  that  as  he  has  certainly  written 
better,  so  he  has  perhaps  written  worse,  than  any  other.  But  I 
think  I  can  in  some  measure  account  for  these  defects,  from  sev- 
eral causes  and  accidents,  without  which  it  is  hard  to  imagine 
that  so  large  and  so  enlightened  a  mind  could  ever  have  been 
susceptible  of  them.  That  all  these  contingencies  should  unite 
to  his  disadvantage  seems  to  me  almost  as  singularly  unlucky, 
as  that  so  many  various  (nay  contrary)  talents  should  meet  in 
one  man  was  happy  and  extraordinary. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  stage  poetry,  of  all  other,  is  more 
particularly  leveled  to  please  the  populace,  and  its  success  more 
immediately  depending  upon  the  common  suffrage.  One  cannot 
therefore  wonder  if  Shakespeare,  having  at  his  first  appearance 
no  other  aim  in  his  writings  than  to  procure  a  subsistence,  di- 
rected his  endeavors  solely  to  hit  the  taste  and  humor  that  then 
prevailed.  The  audience  was  generally  composed  of  the  meaner 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  267 

sort  of  people,  and  therefore  the  images  of  life  were  to  be  drawn 
from  those  of  their  own  rank;  accordingly  we  find  that  not  only 
our  author's,  but  almost  all  the  old  comedies,  have  their  scene 
among  tradesmen  and  mechanics,  and  even  their  historical 
plays  strictly  follow  the  common  old  stories  or  vulgar  tradi- 
tions of  that  kind  of  people.  In  tragedy  nothing  was  so  sure 
to  surprise  *and  cause  admiration,  as  the  most  strange,  unex- 
pected, and  consequently  most  unnatural,  events  and  incidents, 
the  most  exaggerated  thoughts,  the  most  verbose  and  bombast 
expression,  the  most  pompous  rhymes  and  thundering  versifi- 
cation. In  comedy  nothing  was  so  sure  to  please  as  mean  buf- 
foonery, vile  ribaldry,  and  unmannerly  jests  of  fools  and  clowns. 
Yet  even  in  these  our  author's  wit  buoys  up  and  is  borne  above 
his  subject.  His  genius  in  those  low  parts  is  like  some  prince  of 
a  romance,  in  the  disguise  of  a  shepherd  or  peasant;  a  certain 
greatness  and  spirit  now  and  then  break  out,  which  manifest  his 
higher  extraction  and  qualities. 

It  may  be  added  that  not  only  the  common  audience  had  no 
notion  of  the  rules  of  writing,  but  few  even  of  the  better  sort 
piqued  themselves  upon  any  great  degree  of  knowledge  or  nicety 
that  way,  till  Ben  Jonson,  getting  possession  of  the  stage, 
brought  critical  learning  into  vogue.  And  that  this  was  not 
done  without  difficulty  may  appear  from  those  frequent  lessons 
(and  indeed  almost  declamations)  which  he  was  forced  to  pre- 
fix to  his  first  plays,  and  put  into  the  mouth  of  his  actors,  the 
Grex,  Chorus,  etc.,  to  remove  the  prejudices  and  inform  the 
judgment  of  his  hearers.  Till  then,  our  authors  had  no  thoughts 
of  writing  on  the  model  of  the  ancients;  their  tragedies  were 
only  histories  in  dialogue,  and  their  comedies  followed  the 
thread  of  any  novel  as  they  found  it,  no  less  implicitly  than  if  it 
had  been  true  history. 

To  judge,  therefore,  of  Shakespeare  by  Aristotle's  rules,  is 
like  trying  a  man  by  the  laws  of  one  country  who  acted  under 
those  of  another.  He  writ  to  the  people,  and  writ  at  first  with- 
out patronage  from  the  better  sort,  and  therefore  without  aims 
of  pleasing  them ;  without  assistance  or  advice  from  the  learned, 
as  without  the  advantage  of  education  or  acquaintance  among 
them;  without  that  knowledge  of  the  best  models,  the  ancients, 
to  inspire  him  with  an  emulation  of  them;  in  a  word,  without 
any  views  of  reputation,  and  of  what  poets  are  pleased  to  call 


268  ALEXANDER  POPE 

immortality;  some  or  all  of  which  have  encouraged  the  vanity 
or  animated  the  ambition  of  other  writers. 

Yet  it  must  be  observed  that,  when  his  performances  had 
merited  the  protection  of  his  Prince,  and  when  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  court  had  succeeded  to  that  of  the  town,  the  works 
of  his  riper  years  are  manifestly  raised  above  those  of  his  former. 
The  dates  of  his  plays  sufficiently  evidence  that  his  productions 
improved  in  proportion  to  the  respect  he  had  for  his  auditors. 
And  I  make  no  doubt  this  observation  will  be  found  true  in 
every  instance,  were  but  editions  extant  from  which  we  might 
learn  the  exact  time  when  every  piece  was  composed,  and 
whether  writ  for  the  town  or  the  court. 

Another  cause,  and  no  less  strong  than  the  former,  may  be 
deduced  from  our  author's  being  a  player,  and  forming  himself 
first  upon  the  judgments  of  that  body  of  men  whereof  he  was  a 
member.  They  have  ever  had  a  standard  to  themselves,  upon 
other  principles  than  those  of  Aristotle.  As  they  live  by  the 
majority,  they  know  no  rule  but  that  of  pleasing  the  present 
humor,  and  complying  with  the  wit  in  fashion,  a  consideration 
which  brings  all  their  judgment  to  a  short  point.  Players  are 
just  such  judges  of  what  is  right,  as  tailors  are  of  what  is  grace- 
ful. And  in  this  view  it  will  be  but  fair  to  allow  that  most  of  our 
author's  faults  are  less  to  be  ascribed  to  his  wrong  judgment  as 
a  poet,  than  to  his  right  judgment  as  a  player.  .  .  . 

I  will  conclude  by  saying  of  Shakespeare  that,  with  all  his 
faults,  and  with  all  the  irregularity  of  his  drama,  one  may  look 
upon  his  works,  in  comparison  of  those  that  are  more  finished 
and  regular,  as  upon  an  ancient  majestic  piece  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture, compared  with  a  neat  modern  building.  The  latter  is 
more  elegant  and  glaring,  but  the  former  is  more  strong  and 
more  solemn.  It  must  be  allowed  that  in  one  of  these  there  are 
materials  enough  to  make  many  of  the  other.  It  has  much  the 
greater  variety,  and  much  the  nobler  apartments,  though  we 
are  often  conducted  to  them  by  dark,  odd,  and  uncouth  pas- 
sages. Nor  does  the  whole  fail  to  strike  us  with  greater  rev- 
erence, though  many  of  the  parts  are  childish,  ill-placed,  and 
unequal  to  its  grandeur. 


COLLEY   GIBBER 

AN  APOLOGY  FOR  THE  LIFE  OF  COLLEY  GIBBER 

1740 

[The  Apology  was  written  after  Gibber's  retirement  from  active  work 
on  the  stage  in  1733,  and  published  in  his  seventieth  year.  The  extracts 
are  from  chapters  VIII  and  XIV.] 

[THEATRICAL  REFORM] 

OUR  theatrical  writers  were  not  only  accused  of  immorality, 
but  profaneness;  many  flagrant  instances  of  which  were  col- 
lected and  published  by  a  nonjuring  clergyman,  Jeremy  Collier, 
in  his  View  of  the  Stage,  etc.,  about  the  year  1697.  However 
just  his  charge  against  the  authors  that  then  wrote  for  it  might 
be,  I  cannot  but  think  his  sentence  against  the  stage  itself  is 
unequal ;  reformation  he  thinks  too  mild  a  treatment  for  it,  and 
is  therefore  for  laying  his  axe  to  the  root  of  it.  If  this  were  to  be 
a  rule  of  judgment  for  offenses  of  the  same  nature,  what  might 
become  of  the  pulpit,  where  many  a  seditious  and  corrupted 
teacher  has  been  known  to  cover  the  most  pernicious  doctrine 
with  the  mask  of  religion?  This  puts  me  in  mind  of  what  the 
noted  Jo.  Hains,  the  comedian,  a  fellow  of  a  wicked  wit,  said 
upon  this  occasion;  who  being  asked  what  could  transport  Mr. 
Collier  into  so  blind  a  zeal  for  a  general  suppression  of  the  stage, 
when  only  some  particular  authors  had  abused  it,  whereas  the 
stage,  he  could  not  but  know,  was  generally  allowed,  when  rightly 
conducted,  to  be  a  delightful  method  of  mending  our  morals,  — 
"  For  that  reason,"  replied  Hains;  "  Collier  is  by  profession  a 
moral-mender  himself,  and  two  of  a  trade,  you  know,  can  never 
agree." 

The  authors  of  The  Old  Bachelor  and  of  The  Relapse1  were 
those  whom  Collier  most  labored  to  convict  of  immorality,  to 
which  they  severally  published  their  reply.  The  first  seemed 
too  much  hurt  to  be  able  to  defend  himself,  and  the  other  felt 
him  so  little  that  his  wit  only  laughed  at  his  lashes. 

1  Congreve  and  Vanbrugh. 


27o  COLLEY  GIBBER 

My  first  play  of  The  Fool  in  Fashion,  too,  being  then  in  a 
course  of  success,  perhaps  for  that  reason  only  this  severe  au- 
thor thought  himself  obliged  to  attack  it;  in  which,  I  hope,  he 
has  shown  more  zeal  than  justice.  His  greatest  charge  against 
it  is  that  it  sometimes  uses  the  word  "  Faith"  as  an  oath,  in  the 
dialogue.  But  if  Faith  may  as  well  signify  our  given  word,  or 
credit,  as  our  religious  belief,  why  might  not  his  charity  have 
taken  it  in  the  less  criminal  sense?  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Collier's 
book  was  upon  the  whole  thought  so  laudable  a  work  that  King 
William,  soon  after  it  was  published,  granted  him  a  nolo  prose- 
qui,  when  he  stood  answerable  to  the  law  for  his  having  absolved 
two  criminals,  just  before  they  were  executed  for  high  treason. 
And  it  must  be  farther  granted  that  his  calling  our  dramatic 
writers  to  this  strict  account  had  a  very  wholesome  effect  upon 
those  who  writ  after  this  time.  They  were  now  a  great  deal 
more  upon  their  guard;  indecencies  were  no  longer  writ;  and  by 
degrees  the  fair  sex  came  to  fill  the  boxes  on  the  first  day  of  a 
new  comedy,  without  fear  or  censure.  But  the  Master  of  the 
Revels,  who  then  licensed  all  plays  for  the  stage,  assisted  this 
reformation  with  a  more  zealous  severity  than  ever.  He  would 
strike  out  whole  scenes  of  a  vicious  or  immoral  character,  though 
it  were  visibly  shown  to  be  reformed  or  punished.  A  severe  in- 
stance of  this  kind  falling  upon  myself  may  be  an  excuse  for  my 
relating  it.  When  Richard  the  Third,  as  I  altered  it  from  Shake- 
speare, came  from  his  hands  to  the  stage,  he  expunged  the  whole 
first  act,  without  sparing  a  line  of  it.  This  extraordinary  stroke 
of  a  Sic  volo  occasioned  my  applying  to  him  for  the  small  indul- 
gence of  a  speech  or  two,  that  the  other  four  acts  might  limp  on 
with  a  little  less  absurdity.  No!  he  had  not  leisure  to  consider 
what  might  be  separately  inoffensive.  He  had  an  objection  to 
the  whole  act,  and  the  reason  he  gave  for  it  was,  that  the  dis- 
tresses of  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  who  is  killed  by  Richard  in  the 
first  act,  would  put  weak  people  too  much  in  mind  of  King 
James,  then  living  in  France;  —  a  notable  proof  of  his  zeal  for 
the  government!  Those  who  have  read  either  the  play  or  the 
history,  I  dare  say,  will  think  he  strained  hard  for  the  parallel. 
In  a  word,  we  were  forced  for  some  few  years  to  let  the  play 
take  its  fate,  with  only  four  acts,  divided  into  five;  by  the  loss 
of  so  considerable  a  limb  may  one  not  modestly  suppose  it  was 
robbed  of  at  least  a  fifth  part  of  that  favor  it  afterwards  met 


APOLOGY  271 

with?  For  though  this  first  act  was  at  last  recovered,  and  made 
the  play  whole  again,  yet  the  relief  came  too  late  to  repay  me  for 
the  pains  I  had  taken  in  it.  Nor  did  I  ever  hear  that  this  zealous 
severity  of  the  Master  of  the  Revels  was  afterwards  thought 
justifiable.  .  .  . 


[ADDISCM'S  "CATO' 


From  this  time  to  the  year  1712,  my  memory  (from  which 
repository  alone,  every  article  of  what  I  write  is  collected)  has 
nothing  worth  mentioning,  till  the  first  acting  of  the  tragedy  of 
Cato.  As  to  the  play  itself,  it  might  be  enough  to  say  that  the 
author  and  the  actors  had  their  different  hopes  of  fame  and 
profit  amply  answered  by  the  performance;  but  as  its  success 
was  attended  with  remarkable  consequences,  it  may  not  be 
amiss  to  trace  it  from  its  several  years'  concealment  in  the 
closet  to  the  stage. 

In  1703,  nine  years  before  it  was  acted,  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
reading  the  first  four  acts  (which  was  all  of  it  then  written)  pri- 
vately with  Sir  Richard  Steele.  It  may  be  needless  to  say  it  was 
impossible  to  lay  them  out  of  my  hand  till  I  had  gone  through 
them,  or  to  dwell  upon  the  delight  his  friendship  to  the  author 
received,  upon  my  being  so  warmly  pleased  with  them.  But 
my  satisfaction  was  as  highly  disappointed,  when  he  told  me, 
whatever  spirit  Mr.  Addison  had  shown  in  his  writing  it,  he 
doubted  he  would  never  have  courage  enough  to  let  his  Cato 
stand  the  censure  of  an  English  audience;  that  it  had  only  been 
the  amusement  of  his  leisure  hours  in  Italy,  and  was  never  in- 
tended for  the  stage.  This  poetical  diffidence  Sir  Richard  him- 
self spoke  of  with  some  concern,  and  in  the  transport  of  his 
imagination  could  not  help  saying,  "  Good  God!  what  a  part 
would  Betterton  make  of  Cato! "  But  this  was  seven  years  be- 
fore Betterton  died,  and  when  Booth  —  who  afterwards  made 
his  fortune  by  acting  it  —  was  in  his  theatrical  minority. 

In  the  latter  end  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  when  our  national 
politics  had  changed  hands,  the  friends  of  Mr.  Addison  then 
thought  it  a  proper  time  to  animate  the  public  with  the  senti- 
ments of  Cato.  In  a  word,  their  importunities  were  too  warm  to 
be  resisted,  and  it  was  no  sooner  finished  than  hurried  to  the 
stage,  in  April,  1712,  at  a  time  when  three  days  a  week  were 
usually  appointed  for  the  benefit  plays  of  particular  actors. 


272  COLLEY  GIBBER 

But  a  work  of  that  critical  importance  was  to  make  its  way 
through  all  private  considerations;  nor  could  it  possibly  give 
place  to  a  custom  which  the  breach  of  could  very  little  prejudice 
the  benefits,  that  on  so  unavoidable  an  occasion  were  (in  part, 
though  not  wholly)  postponed.  It  was  therefore  (Mondays 
excepted)  acted  every  day  for  a  month  to  constantly  crowded 
houses.  As  the  author  had  made  us  a  present  of  whatever  profits 
he  might  have  claimed  from  it,  we  thought  ourselves  obliged  to 
spare  no  cost  in  the  proper  decorations  of  it.  Its  coming  so  late 
in  the  season  to  the  stage  proved  of  particular  advantage  to  the 
sharing  actors,  because  the  harvest  of  our  annual  gains  was 
generally  over  before  the  middle  of  March,  many  select  audi- 
ences being  then  usually  reserved  in  favor  to  the  benefits  of  pri- 
vate actors,  which  fixed  engagements  naturally  abated  the 
receipts  of  the  days  before  and  after  them;  but  this  unexpected 
after-crop  of  Cato  largely  supplied  to  us  those  deficiencies,  and 
was  almost  equal  to  two  fruitful  seasons  in  the  same  year;  at 
the  close  of  which  the  three  managing  actors  found  themselves 
each  a  gainer  of  thirteen  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

But  to  return  to  the  first  reception  of  this  play  from  the  pub- 
lic. Although  Cato  seems  plainly  written  upon  what  are  called 
Whig  principles,  yet  the  Tories  of  that  time  had  sense  enough 
not  to  take  it  as  the  least  reflection  upon  their  administration; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  they  seemed  to  brandish  and  vaunt  their 
approbation  of  every  sentiment  in  favor  of  liberty,  which  by  a 
public  act  of  their  generosity  was  carried  so  high,  that  one  day 
while  the  play  was  acting  they  collected  fifty  guineas  in  the 
boxes,  and  made  a  present  of  them  to  Booth,  with  this  compli- 
ment: "For  his  honest  opposition  to  a  perpetual  dictator,  and 
his  dying  so  bravely  in  the  cause  of  liberty."  .  .  . 


HENRY  ST.   JOHN,   VISCOUNT 
BOLINGBROKE, 

[Bolingbroke's  writings,  as  published  during  his  lifetime,  were  chiefly 
political;  but  his  notes  and  essays  on  philosophy  and  religion  were  well 
known  in  MS.  (several  of  them  being  written  for  Pope  and  used  by  him, 
as  in  the  Essay  on  Man).  The  essays  here  represented  were  published  by 
Mallet  after  the  author's  death,  the  "Use  of  Retirement"  in  the  same 
book  with  "A  Plan  fora  General  History  "  and  "Reflections  on  Exile,"  the 
Letter  to  Pope  with  "A  Letter  to  Sir  W.  Wyndham"  and  "Reflections  on 
the  State  of  the  Nation."  The  extracts  well  represent  certain  aspects  of 
eighteenth-century  deism;  e.  g.,  the  curious  fashion  in  which  its  spokes- 
men attacked  the  established  faith  and  organization  of  the  church,  while 
disclaiming  any  desire  to  abolish  or  supplant  it.] 

OF  THE  TRUE  USE  OF  RETIREMENT  AND  STUDY 

1752 

.  .  .  .  THERE  is  a  strange  distrust  of  human  reason  in  every  hu- 
man institution.  This  distrust  is  so  apparent  that  an  habitual 
submission  to  some  authority  or  other  is  forming  in  us  from  our 
cradles;  that  principles  of  reasoning,  and  matters  of  fact,  are 
inculcated  in  our  tender  minds,  before  we  are  able  to  exercise 
that  reason;  and  that,  when  we  are  able  to  exercise  it,  we  are 
either  forbid,  or  frightened  from  doing  so,  even  on  things  that 
are  themselves  the  proper  objects  of  reason,  or  that  are  deliv- 
ered to  us  upon  an  authority  whose  sufficiency  or  insufficiency 
is  so  most  evidently. 

On  many  subjects,  such  as  the  general  laws  of  natural  reli- 
gion, and  the  general  rules  of  society  and  good  policy,  men  of  all 
countries  and  languages,  who  cultivate  their  reason,  judge  alike. 
The  same  premises  have  led  them  to  the  same  conclusions,  and 
so,  following  the  same  guide,  they  have  trod  in  the  same  path. 
At  least  the  differences  are  small,  easily  reconciled,  and  such  as 
could  not  of  themselves  contradistinguish  nation  from  nation, 
religion  from  religion,  and  sect  from  sect.  How  comes  it,  then, 
that  there  are  other  points  on  which  the  most  opposite  opinions 
are  entertained,  and  some  of  these  with  so  much  heat  and  fury 


274  LORD  BOLINGBROKE 

that  the  men  on  one  side  of  the  hedge  will  die  for  the  affirmative, 
and  the  men  on  the  other  for  the  negative?  .  .  .  Look  narrowly 
into  it,  and  you  will  find  that  the  points  agreed  on,  and  the  points 
disputed,  are  not  proportionable  to  the  common  sense  and  gen- 
eral reason  of  mankind.  Nature  and  truth  are  the  same  every- 
where, and  reason  shows  them  everywhere  alike.  But  the  acci- 
dental and  other  causes,  which  give  rise  and  growth  to  opinions, 
both  in  speculation  and  practice,  are  of  infinite  variety;  and 
wherever  these  opinions  are  once  confirmed  by  .custom  and 
propagated  by  education,  various,  inconsistent,  contradictory 
as  they  are,  they  all  pretend  (and  all  their  pretences  are  backed 
by  pride,  by  passion,  and  by  interest)  to  have  reason,  or  reve- 
lation, or  both,  on  their  side;  though  neither  reason  nor  revela- 
tion can  be  possibly  on  the  side  of  more  than  one  and  may  be 
possibly  on  the  side  of  none. 

Thus  it  happens  that  the  people  of  Thibet  are  Tartars  and 
idolaters,  that  they  are  Turks  and  Mahometans  at  Constanti- 
nople, Italians  and  Papists  at  Rome;  and  how  much  soever 
education  may  be  less  confined,  and  the  means  of  knowledge 
more  attainable,  in  France  and  our  own  country,  yet  thus  it 
happens  in  great  measure  that  Frenchmen  and  Roman  Catho- 
lics are  bred  at  Paris,  and  Englishmen  and  Protestants  at 
London.  For  men,  indeed,  properly  speaking,  are  bred  no- 
where; every  one  thinks  the  system,  as  he  speaks  the  language, 
of  his  country.  At  least  there  are  few  that  think,  and  none  that 
act,  in  any  country,  according  to  the  dictates  of  pure  unbiased 
reason;  unless  they  may  be  said  to  do  so,  when  reason  directs 
them  to  speak  and  act  according  to  the  system  of  their  country 
or  sect,  at  the  same  time  as  she  leads  them  to  think  according 
to  that  of  nature  and  truth. 

Thus  the  far  greatest  part  of  mankind  appears  reduced  to  a 
lower  state  than  other  animals,  in  that  very  respect  on  account 
of  which  we  claim  so  great  superiority  over  them;  because  in- 
stinct, that  has  its  due  effect,  is  preferable  to  reason  that  has 
not.  I  suppose  in  this  place,  with  philosophers  and  the  vulgar, 
that  which  I  am  in  no  wise  ready  to  affirm  —  that  other  ani- 
mals have  no  share  of  human  reason;  for,  let  me  say  by  the  way; 
it  is  much  more  likely  other  animals  should  share  the  human, 
than  that  man  should  share  the  divine  reason,  which  is  affirmed. 
But,  supposing  our  monopoly  of  reason,  would  not  your  Lord  • 


TRUE  USE  OF  RETIREMENT   AND   STUDY    275 

ship  choose  to  walk  upon  four  legs,  to  wear  a  long  tail,  and  to  be 
called  a  beast,  with  the  advantage  of  being  determined  by  irre- 
sistible and  unerring  instinct  to  those  truths  that  are  necessary 
to  your  well-being,  rather  than  to  walk  on  two  legs,  to  wear  no 
tail,  and  to  be  honored  with  the  title  of  man,  at  the  expense  of 
deviating  from  them  perpetually?  Instinct  acts  spontaneously 
whenever  its  action  is  necessary,  and  directs  the  animal  accord- 
ing to  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  implanted  in  him.  Reason 
is  a  nobler  and  more  extensive  faculty,  for  it  extends  to  the  un- 
necessary as  well  as  to  the  necessary,  and  to  satisfy  our  curios- 
ity as  well  as  our  wants;  but  reason  must  be  excited,  or  she 
will  remain  inactive.  She  must  be  left  free,  or  she  will  conduct 
us  wrong,  and  carry  us  farther  astray  from  her  own  precincts 
than  we  should  go  without  her  help.  In  the  first  case  we  have 
no  sufficient  guide;  and  in  the  second,  the  more  we  employ  our 
reason  the  more  unreasonable  we  are. 

Now  if  all  this  be  so,  if  reason  has  so  little,  and  ignorance, 
passion,  interest,  and  custom  so  much  to  do,  in  forming  our 
opinions  and  our  habits,  and  in  directing  the  whole  conduct  of 
human  life,  is  it  not  a  thing  desirable  by  every  thinking  man,  to 
have  the  opportunity,  indulged  to  so  few  by  the  course  of  acci- 
dents, —  the  opportunity  secum  esse,  et  secum  vivere,  of  living 
some  years,  at  least,  to  ourselves  and  for  ourselves,  in  a  state  of 
freedom,  under  the  laws  of  reason,  instead  of  passing  our  whole 
time  in  a  state  of  vassalage  under  those  of  authority  and  cus- 
tom? Is  it  not  worth  our  while  to  contemplate  ourselves,  and 
others,  and  all  the  things  of  this  world,  once  before  we  leave 
them,  through  the  medium  of  pure,  and  —  if  I  may  say  so  — 
undefiled  reason?  Is  it  not  worth  our  while  to  approve  or  con- 
demn, on  our  own  authority,  what  we  receive  in  the  beginning 
of  life  on  the  authority  of  other  men,  who  were  not  then  better 
able  to  judge  for  us  than  we  are  now  to  judge  for  ourselves? 

All  men  are  taught  their  opinions,  at  least  on  the  most  impor- 
tant subjects,  by  rote,  and  are  bred  to  defend  them  with  ob- 
stinacy. They  maybe  taught  true  opinions;  but  whether  true 
or  false,  the  same  zeal  for  them,  and  the  same  attachment  to 
them,  is  everywhere  inspired  alike.  The  Tartar  believes  as 
heartily  that  the  soul  of  Foe  inhabits  in  his  Dairo,  as  the  Chris- 
tian believes  the  hypostatic  union,  or  any  article  in  theAthana- 
sian  Creed.  Now  this  may  answer  the  ends  of  society  in  some 


276  LORD  BOLINGBROKE 

respects,  and  do  well  enough  for  the  vulgar  of  all  ranks;  but  it  is 
not  enough  for  the  man  who  cultivates  his  reason,  who  is  able 
to  think,  and  who  ought  to  think,  for  himself.  To  such  a  man, 
every  opinion  that  he  has  not  himself  framed,  or  examined 
strictly,  and  then  adopted,  will  pass  for  nothing  more  than 
what  it  really  is,  —  the  opinion  of  other  men,  which  may  be 
true  or  false,  for  aught  he  knows.  And  this  is  a  state  of  uncer- 
tainty in  which  no  such  man  can  remain,  with  any  peace  of 
mind,  concerning  those  things  that  are  of  greatest  importance 
to  us  here,  and  may  be  so  hereafter.  He  will  make  them,  there- 
fore, the  objects  of  his  first  and  greatest  attention.  If  he  has 
lost  time,  he  will  lose  no  more.  And  when  he  has  acquired  all 
the  knowledge  he  is  capable  of  acquiring  on  these  subjects,  he 
will  be  the  less  concerned  whether  he  has  time  to  acquire  any 
farther.  Should  he  have  passed  his  life  in  the  pleasures  or  busi- 
ness of  the  world,  whenever  he  sets  about  this  work,  he  will 
soon  have  the  advantage  over  the  learned  philosopher.  For  he 
will  soon  have  secured  what  is  necessary  to  his  happiness,  and 
may  sit  down  in  the  peaceful  enjoyment  of  that  knowledge,  or 
proceed  with  greater  advantage  and  satisfaction  to  the  acqui- 
sition of  new  knowledge ;  whilst  the  other  continues  his  search 
after  things  that  are  in  their  nature  —  to  say  the  best  of  them 
—  hypothetical,  precarious,  and  superfluous.  .  .  . 

In  short,  my  lord,  he  who  retires  from  the  world  with  a  reso- 
lution of  employing  his  leisure  in  the  first  place  to  re-examine 
and  settle  his  opinions,  is  inexcusable  if  he  does  not  begin  with 
those  that  are  most  important  to  him,  and  if  he  does  not  deal 
honestly  by  himself.  To  deal  honestly  by  himself,  he  must  ob- 
serve the  rule  I  have  insisted  upon,  and  not  suffer  the  delusions 
of  the  world  to  follow  him  into  his  retreat.  Every  man's  reason 
is  every  man's  oracle;  this  oracle  is  best  consulted  in  the  silence 
of  retirement;  and  when  we  have  so  consulted,  whatever  the 
decision  be,  whether  in  favor  of  our  prejudices  or  against  them, 
we  must  rest  satisfied,  since  nothing  can  be  more  certain  than 
this,  that  he  who  follows  that  guide  in  the  search  of  truth,  as 
that  was  given  him  to  lead  him  to  it,  will  have  a  much  better 
plea  to  make,  whenever  or  wherever  he  may  be  called  to  ac- 
count, than  he  who  has  resigned  himself,  either  deliberately 
or  inadvertently,  to  any  authority  upon  earth. 

When  we  have  done  this,  concerning  God,  ourselves,  and. 


A  LETTER  TO  ALEXANDER  POPE    277 

other  men,  —  concerning  the  relations  in  which  we  stand  to 
Him  and  to  them,  —  the  duties  that  result  from  these  relations, 
—  and  the  positive  will  of  the  Supreme  Being,  whether  revealed 
to  us  in  a  supernatural,  or  discovered  by  the  right  use  of  our 
reason  in  a  natural  way,  —  we  have  done  the  great  business  of 
our  lives.  Our  lives  are  so  sufficient  for  this,  that  they  afford  us 
time  for  more,  even  when  we  begin  late;  especially  if  we  pro- 
ceed in  every  other  inquiry  by  the  same  rule.  To  discover  error 
in  axioms,  or  in  first  principles  grounded  on  facts,  is  like  the 
breaking  of  a  charm.  The  enchanted  castle,  the  steep  rock,  the 
burning  lake  disappear;  and  the  paths  that  lead  to  truth,  which 
we  imagined  to  be  so  long,  so  embarrassed,  and  so  difficult, 
show  as  they  are,  —  short,  open,  and  easy.  .  .  . 


A   LETTER   ADDRESSED   TO  ALEXANDER  POPE 

ESQ. 

1753 

.  .  .  To  be  contented  to  know  things  as  God  has  made  us  capa- 
ble of  knowing  them,  is  then  a  first  principle  necessary  to  secure 
us  from  falling  in  to  error;  and  if  there  is  any  subject  upon  which 
we  should  be  most  on  our  guard  against  error,  it  is  surely  that 
which  I  have  called  here  the  First  Philosophy.  God  is  hid  from 
us  in  the  majesty  of  His  nature,  and  the  little  we  discover  of  Him 
must  be  discovered  by  the  light  that  is  reflected  from  His  works. 
Out  of  this  light,  therefore,  we  should  never  go  in  our  inquiries 
and  reasonings  about  His  nature,  His  attributes,  and  the  order 
of  His  providence.  And  yet  upon  these  subjects  men  depart  the 
furthest  from  it;  nay,  they  who  depart  the  furthest  are  the  best 
heard  by  the  bulk  of  mankind.  The  less  men  know,  the  more 
they  believe  that  they  know.  Belief  passes  in  their  minds  for 
knowledge,  and  the  very  circumstances  which  should  beget 
doubt  produce  increase  of  faith.  Every  glittering  apparition 
that  is  pointed  out  to  them  in  the  vast  wild  of  imagination, 
passes  for  a  reality;  and  the  more  distant,  the  more  confused, 
the  more  incomprehensible  it  is,  the  more  sublime  it  is  esteemed. 
He  who  should  attempt  to  shift  these  scenes  of  airy  vision  for 
those  of  real  knowledge  might  expect  to  be  treated  with  scorn 
and  anger  by  the  whole  theological  and  metaphysical  tribe,  the 


278  LORD  BOLINGBROKE 

masters  and  the  scholars.  He  would  be  despised  as  a  plebeian 
philosopher,  and  railed  at  as  an  infidel.  It  would  be  sounded 
high  that  he  debased  human  nature,  which  has  a  cognation — • 
so  the  Reverend  and  learned  Doctor  Cudworth  calls  it  —  with 
the  divine;  —  that  the  soul  of  man,  immaterial  and  immortal 
by  its  nature,  was  made  to  contemplate  higher  and  nobler  ob- 
jects than  this  sensible  world,  and  even  than  itself,  since  it  was 
made  to  contemplate  God,  and  to  be  united  to  Him.  In  such 
clamor  as  this,  the  voice  of  truth  and  reason  would  be  drowned; 
and,  with  both  of  them  on  his  side,  he  who  opposed  it  would 
make  many  enemies  and  few  converts.  .  .  .  Prudence  forbids 
me,  therefore,  to  write  as  I  think  to  the  world,  whilst  friendship 
forbids  me  to  write  otherwise  to  you.  I  have  been  a  martyr 
of  faction  in  politics,  and  have  no  vocation  to  be  so  in  philo- 
sophy. 

...  If  the  religion  we  profess  contained  nothing  more  than  arti- 
cles of  faith  and  points  of  doctrine  clearly  revealed  to  us  in  the 
Gospel,  we  might  be  obliged  to  renounce  our  natural  freedom 
of  thought  in  favor  of  this  supernatural  authority.  But  since 
it  is  notorious  that  a  certain  order  of  men,  who  call  themselves 
the  Church,  have  been  employed  to  make  and  propagate  a 
theological  system  of  their  own,  which  they  call  Christianity, 
from  the  days  of  the  apostles,  and  even  from  these  days  inclus- 
ively, it  is  our  duty  to  examine  and  analyze  the  whole,  that  we 
may  distinguish  what  is  divine  from  what  is  human, —  adhere 
to  the  first  simplicity,  and  ascribe  to  the  last  no  more  authority 
than  the  word  of  man  deserves.  .  .  . 

I  neither  expect  nor  desire  to  see  any  public  revision  made  of 
the  present  system  of  Christianity.  I  should  fear  an  attempt  to 
alter  the  established  religion  as  much  as  they  who  have  the 
most  bigot  attachment  to  it,  and  for  reasons  as  good  as  theirs, 
though  not  entirely  the  same.  I  speak  only  of  the  duty  of  every 
private  man  to  examine  for  himself,  which  would  have  an 
immediate  good  effect  relatively  to  himself,  and  might  have 
in  time  a  good  effect  relatively  to  the  public,  since  it  would 
dispose  the  minds  of  men  to  a  greater  indifference  about  theo- 
logical disputes,  which  are  the  disgrace  of  Christianity  and  have 
been  the  plagues  of  the  world.  ...  He  who  examines  on  such 
principles  as  these,  which  are  conformable  to  truth  and  reason, 
may  lay  aside  at  once  the  immense  volumes  of  fathers  and 


A  LETTER  TO  ALEXANDER  POPE    279 

councils,  of  schoolmen,  casuists,  and  controversial  writers, 
which  have  perplexed  the  world  so  long.  Natural  religion  will 
be  to  such  a  man  no  longer  intricate;  revealed  religion  will  be  no 
longer  mysterious,  nor  the  word  of  God  equivocal.  Clearness 
and  precision  are  two  great  excellences  of  human  laws;  how 
much  more  should  we  expect  to  find  them  in  the  law  of  God? 
They  have  been  banished  from  thence  by  artificial  theology; 
and  he  who  is  desirous  to  find  them  must  banish  the  professors 
of  it  from  his  counsels,  instead  of  consulting  them.  He  must 
seek  for  genuine  Christianity  with  that  simplicity  of  spirit  with 
which  it  is  taught  in  the  Gospel  by  Christ  himself.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  conclude  my  discourse  on  this  occasion  better  than 
by  putting  you  in  mind  of  a  passage  you  quoted  to  me  once, 
with  great  applause,  from  a  sermon  of  Foster,  and  to  this  effect: 
"Where  mystery  begins,  religion  ends."  The  apophthegm 
pleased  me  much,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  such  a  truth  from  any 
pulpit,  since  it  shows  an  inclination,  at  least,  to  purify  Chris- 
tianity from  the  leaven  of  artificial  theology,  which  consists 
principally  in  making  things  that  are  very  plain  mysterious,  and 
in  pretending  to  make  things  that  are  impenetrably  mysterious 
very  plain.  If  you  continue  still  of  the  same  mind,  I  shall  have 
no  excuse  to  make  to  you  for  what  I  have  written,  and  shall 
write.  Our  opinions  coincide.  If  you  have  changed  your  mind, 
think  again,  and  examine  further.  You  will  find  that  it  is  the 
modest,  not  the  presumptuous,  inquirer,  who  makes  a  real  and 
safe  progress  in  the  discovery  of  divine  truths.  One  follows  na- 
ture and  nature's  God;  that  is,  he  follows  God  in  His  works  and 
in  His  word,  nor  presumes  to  go  further,  by  metaphysical  and 
theological  commentaries  of  his  own  invention,  than  the  two 
texts,  if  I  may  use  this  expression,  carry  him  very  evidently. 
They  who  have  done  otherwise,  and  have  affected  to  discover, 
by  a  supposed  science  derived  from  tradition,  or  taught  in  the 
schools,  more  than  they  who  have  not  such  science  can  discover, 
concerning  the  nature,  moral  and  physical,  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  and  concerning  the  secrets  of  His  providence,  have  been 
either  enthusiasts  or  knaves,  —  or  else  of  that  numerous  tribe 
who  reason  well  very  often,  but  reason  always  on  some  arbitrary 
assumption.  Much  of  this  character  belonged  to  the  heathen 
divines;  and  it  is,  in  all  its  parts,  peculiarly  that  of  the  ancient 
fathers  and  modern  doctors  of  the  Christian  Church.  ...  All 


28o  LORD  BOLINGBROKE 

these  men,  both  heathens  and  Christians,  appeared  gigantic 
forms  through  the  false  medium  of  imagination  and  habitual 
prejudice,  but  were,  in  truth,  as  arrant  dwarfs  in  the  know- 
ledge to  which  they  pretended,  as  you  and  I  and  all  the  sons  of 
Adam.  The  former,  however,  deserved  some  excuse;  the  latter 
none.  . 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

THE  HISTORY  OF  CLARISSA  HARLOWE 

1747-48 

PREFACE 

THE  following  history  is  given  in  a  series  of  letters,  written 
principally  in  a  double  yet  separate  correspondence,  between 
two  young  ladies  of  virtue  and  honor,  bearing  an  inviolable 
friendship  for  each  other,  and  writing  not  merely  for  amuse- 
ment, but  upon  the  most  interesting  subjects,  in  which  every 
private  family,  more  or  less,  may  find  itself  concerned ;  and  be- 
tween two  gentlemen  of  free  lives,  one  of  them  glorying  in  his 
talents  for  stratagem  and  invention,  and  communicating  to  the 
other,  in  confidence,  all  the  secret  purposes  of  an  intriguing 
head  and  resolute  heart.  But  here  it  will  be  proper  to  observe, 
for  the  sake  of  such  as  may  apprehend  hurt  to  the  morals  of 
youth  from  the  more  freely  written  letters,  that  the  gentlemen, 
though  professed  libertines  as  to  the  female  sex,  and  making  it 
one  of  their  wicked  maxims  to  keep  no  faith  with  any  of  the  in- 
dividuals of  it  who  are  thrown  into  their  power,  are  not,  how- 
ever, either  infidels  or  scoffers,  nor  yet  such  as  think  themselves 
freed  from  the  observance  of  those  other  moral  duties  which 
bind  man  to  man.  On  the  contrary,  it  will  be  found  in  the  pro- 
gress of  the  work  that  they  very  often  make  such  reflections 
upon  each  other,  and  each  upon  himself  and  his  own  actions,  as 
reasonable  beings  must  make,  who  disbelieve  not  a  future  state 
of  rewards  and  punishments,  and  who  one  day  propose  to  re- 
form,—  one  of  them  actually  reforming,  and  by  that  means 
giving  an  opportunity  to  censure  the  freedoms  which  fall  from 
the  gayer  pen  and  lighter  heart  of  the  other.  And  yet  that  other, 
although,  in  unbosoming  himself  to  a  select  friend,  he  discover 
wickedness  enough  to  entitle  him  to  general  detestation,  pre- 
serves a  decency,  as  well  in  his  images  as  in  his  language,  which 
is  not  always  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  some  of  the  most  cele- 
brated modern  writers,  whose  subjects  and  characters  have  less 
warranted  the  liberties  they  have  taken. 


282  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

In  the  letters  of  the  two  young  ladies,  it  is  presumed  will  be 
found  not  only  the  highest  exercise  of  a  reasonable  and  practi- 
cable friendship,  between  minds  endowed  with  the  noblest 
principles  of  virtue  and  religion,  but  occasionally  interspersed 
such  delicacy  of  sentiments,  particularly  with  regard  to  the 
other  sex,  —  such  instances  of  impartiality,  each  freely,  as  a 
fundamental  principle  of  their  friendship,  blaming,  praising, 
and  setting  right  the  other,  —  as  are  strongly  to  be  recom- 
mended to  the  observation  of  the  younger  part  (more  specially) 
of  female  readers. 

The  principal  of  these  two  young  ladies  is  proposed  as  an 
exemplar  to  her  sex.  Nor  is  it  any  objection  to  her  being  so, 
that  she  is  not  in  all  respects  a  perfect  character.  It  was  not 
only  natural,  but  it  was  necessary,  that  she  should  have  some 
faults,  were  it  only  to  show  the  reader  how  laudably  she  could 
mistrust  and  blame  herself,  and  carry  to  her  own  heart,  divested 
of  self-partiality,  the  censure  which  arose  from  her  own  convic- 
tions, and  that  even  to  the  acquittal  of  those,  because  revered 
characters,  whom  no  one  else  would  acquit,  and  to  whose  much 
greater  faults  her  errors  were  owing,  and  not  to  a  weak  or  re- 
proachable  heart.  As  far  as  is  consistent  with  human  frailty, 
and  as  far  as  she  could  be  perfect,  considering  the  people  she 
had  to  deal  with,  and  those  with  whom  she  was  inseparably 
connected,  she  is  perfect.  To  have  been  impeccable  must  have 
left  nothing  for  the  Divine  Grace  and  a  purified  state  to  do,  and 
carried  our  idea  of  her  from  woman  to  angel.  As  such  is  she 
often  esteemed  by  the  man  whose  heart  was  so  corrupt  that  he 
could  hardly  believe  human  nature  capable  of  the  purity  which, 
on  every  trial  or  temptation,  shone  out  in  hers. 

Besides  the  four  principal  persons,  several  others  are  intro- 
duced, whose  letters  are  characteristic;  and  it  is  presumed  that 
there  will  be  found  in  some  of  them  —  but  more  especially  in 
those  of  the  chief  character  among  the  men,  and  the  second 
character  among  the  women  —  such  strokes  of  gayety,  fancy, 
and  humor,  as  will  entertain  and  divert,  and  at  the  same  time 
both  warn  and  instruct. 

All  the  letters  are  written  while  the  hearts  of  the  writers  must 
be  supposed  to  be  wholly  engaged  in  their  subjects  (the  events 
at  the  time  generally  dubious) ;  so  that  they  abound  not  only 
with  critical  situations,  but  with  what  may  be  called  instan- 


CLARISSA  HARLOWE  2g3 

taneous  descriptions  and  reflections,  proper  to  be  brought  home 
to  the  breast  of  the  youthful  reader;  as  also  with  affecting  con- 
versations, many  of  them  written  in  the  dialogue  or  dramatic 
way.  "  Much  more  lively  and  affecting,"  says  one  of  the  princi- 
pal characters,  "  must  be  the  style  of  those  who  write  in  the 
height  of  a  present  distress,  the  mind  tortured  by  the  pangs  of 
uncertainty,  —  the  events  then  hidden  in  the  womb  of  fate,  — 
than  the  dry,  narrative,  unanimated  style  of  a  person  relating 
difficulties  and  dangers  surmounted,  can  be,  —  the  relater  per- 
fectly at  ease,  and,  if  himself  unmoved  by  his  own  story,  not 
likely  greatly  to  affect  the  reader." 

What  will  be  found  to  be  more  particularly  aimed  at  in  the 
following  work  is,  —  to  warn  the  inconsiderate  and  thoughtless 
of  the  one  sex,  against  the  base  arts  and  designs  of  specious 
contrivers  of  the  other,  —  to  caution  parents  against  the  undue 
exercise  of  their  natural  authority  over  their  children  in  the 
great  article  of  marriage,  —  to  warn  children  against  preferring 
a  man  of  pleasure  to  a  man  of  probity  upon  that  dangerous  but 
too  commonly  received  notion  that  "a  reformed  rake  makes 
the  best  husband,"  —  but,  above  all,  to  investigate  the  highest 
and  most  important  doctrines  not  only  of  morality  but  of 
Christianity,  by  showing  them  thrown  into  action  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  worthy  characters,  while  the  unworthy,  who  set  those 
doctrines  at  defiance,  are  condignly,  and,  as  may  be  said,  conse- 
quentially punished. 

From  what  has  been  said,  considerate  readers  will  not  enter 
upon  the  perusal  of  the  piece  before  them  as  if  it  were  designed 
only  to  divert  and  amuse.  It  will  probably  be  thought  tedious 
to  all  such  as  dip  into  it,  expecting  a  light  novel,  or  transitory 
romance,  and  look  upon  story  in  it  (interesting  as  that  is  gener- 
ally allowed  to  be)  as  its  sole  end,  rather  than  as  a  vehicle  to  the 
instruction.  .  .  . 

[THE  DEATH  OF  CLARISSA] 
Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

I  may  as  well  try  to  write;  since,  were  I  to  go  to  bed,  I  shall 
not  sleep.  I  never  had  such  a  weight  of  grief  upon  my  mind  in 
my  life,  as  upon  the  demise  of  this  admirable  woman,  whose 
soul  is  now  rejoicing  in  the  regions  of  light.  You  may  be  glad  to 
know  the  particulars  of  her  happy  exit.  I  will  try  to  proceed, 


284  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

for  all  is  hush  and  still,  —  the  family  retired,  but  not  one  of 
them,  and  least  of  all  her  poor  cousin,  I  dare  say,  to  rest.  At 
four  o'clock,  as  I  mentioned  in  my  last,  I  was  sent  for  down,  and 
as  thou  usedst  to  like  my  descriptions,  I  will  give  thee  the  woful 
scene  that  presented  itself  to  me  as  I  approached  the  bed.  The 
Colonel  was  the  first  that  took  my  attention,  kneeling  on  the  side 
of  the  bed,  the  lady's  right  hand  in  both  his,  which  his  face  cov- 
ered, bathing  it  with  his  tears ;  although  she  had  been  comforting 
him,  as  the  women  since  told  me,  in  elevated  strains  but  broken 
accents. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  sat  the  good  widow,  her  face 
overwhelmed  with  tears,  leaning  her  head  against  the  bed's 
head  in  a  most  disconsolate  manner;  and,  turning  her  face  to  me 
as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  "  O  Mr.  Belford!"  cried  she,  with  folded 
hands,  "  the  dear  lady—  '  A  heavy  sob  permitted  her  not  to 
say  more.  Mrs.  Smith,  with  clasped  fingers  and  uplifted  eyes, 
as  if  imploring  help  from  the  only  Power  which  could  give  it,  was 
kneeling  down  at  the  bed's  feet,  tears  in  large  drops  trickling 
down  her  cheeks.  Her  nurse  was  kneeling  between  the  widow 
and  Mrs.  Smith,  her  arms  extended.  In  one  hand  she  held  an 
ineffectual  cordial,  which  she  had  just  been  offering  to  her  dying 
mistress.  Her  face  was  swollen  with  weeping,  though  used  to 
such  scenes  as  this,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  towards  me,  as  if 
she  called  upon  me  by  them  to  join  in  the  helpless  sorrow,  —  a 
fresh  stream  bursting  from  them  as  I  approached  the  bed. 

The  maid  of  the  house,  with  her  face  upon  her  folded  arms, 
as  she  stood  leaning  against  the  wainscot,  more  audibly  ex- 
pressed her  grief  than  any  of  the  others.  The  lady  had  been 
silent  a  few  minutes,  and  speechless,  as  they  thought,  moving 
her  lips  without  uttering  a  word;  one  hand,  as  I  said,  in  her 
cousin's.  But  when  Mrs.  Lovick,  on  my  approach,  pronounced 
my  name,  "O  Mr.  Belford!"  said  she,  with  a  faint  inward 
voice,  but  very  distinct  nevertheless,  "  now  —  now"  (in  broken 
periods  she  spoke)  "I  bless  God  for  his  mercies  to  his  poor  crea- 
ture. All  will  soon  be  over — a  few — a  very  few  moments  — 
will  end  this  strife  —  and  I  shall  be  happy!  Comfort  here,  sir" 
(turning  her  head  to  the  Colonel),  "  comfort  my  cousin  —  see! 
the  blame — able  kindness  —  he  would  not  wish  me  to  be 
happy  —  so  soon ! "  Here  she  stopped  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
earnestly  looking  upon  him.  Then,  resuming,  "My  dearest 


CLARISSA  HARLOWE  285 

cousin,"  said  she,  "be  comforted.  What  is  dying  but  the  com- 
mon lot?  The  mortal  frame  may  seem  to  labor  —  but  that  is 
all!  It  is  not  so  hard  to  die  as  I  believed  it  to  be!  The  prepara- 
tion is  the  difficulty  —  I  bless  God  I  have  had  time  for  that  — 
the  rest  is  worse  to  beholders  than  to  me  —  I  am  all  blessed 
hope  —  hope  itself."  She  looked  what  she  said,  a  sweet  smile 
beaming  over  her  countenance. 

After  a  short  silence,  "  Once  more,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  she, 
but  still  in  broken  accents,  "  commend  me  most  dutifully  to  my 
father  and  mother."  There  she  stopped;  and  then,  proceeding, 
"To  my  sister,  to  my  brother,  to  my  uncles;  and  tell  them  I 
bless  them  with  my  parting  breath  —  for  all  their  goodness  to 
me  —  even  for  their  displeasure,  I  bless  them — most  happy  has 
been  to  me  my  punishment  here!  Happy  indeed !"  She  was  si- 
lent for  a  few  moments,  lifting  up  her  eyes,  and  the  hand  her 
cousin  held  not  between  his.  Then  "  ODeath,"said  she, "  where 
is  thy  sting! "  (the  words  I  remember  to  have  heard  in  the  burial 
service  read  over  my  uncle  and  poor  Belton);  and,  after  a 
pause,  "  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  was  afflicted! "  Words  of  Scrip- 
ture, I  suppose.  Then,  turning  towards  us,  who  were  lost  in 
speechless  sorrow,  "O  dear,  dear  gentlemen,"  said  she,  "you 
know  not  what  foretastes  —  what  assurances  —  "  And  there 
she  again  stopped,  and  looked  up,  as  if  in  a  thankful  rapture, 
sweetly  smiling.  Then,  turning  her  head  towards  me,  "  Do 
you,  sir,  tell  your  friend  that  I  forgive  him!  And  I  pray  God  to 
forgive  him!"  Again  pausing,  and  lifting  up  her  eyes,  as  if 
praying  that  He  would.  "  Let  him  know  how  happily  I  die;  and 
that  such  as  my  own,  I  wish  to  be  his  last  hour."  She  was  again 
silent  for  a  few  moments;  and  then,  resuming,  "My  sight 
fails  me !  Your  voices  only  -  "  (for  we  both  applauded  her 
Christian,  her  divine  frame,  though  in  accents  as  broken  as  her 
own)  "  and  the  voic»  of  grief  is  alike  in  all.  Is  not  this  Mr.  Mor- 
den's  hand?  "  —  pressing  one  of  his  with  that  he  had  just  let  go. 
"  Which  is  Mr.  Belford's?  "  —  holding  out  the  other.  I  gave  her 
mine.  " God  Almighty  bless  you  both!"  said  she,  "and  make 
you  both  —  in  your  last  hour  —  for  you  must  come  to  this  — 
happy  as  I  am." 

She  paused  again,  her  breath  growing  shorter,  and  after  a  few 
minutes,  "And  now,  my  dearest  cousin,  give  me  your  hand  — 
nearer  —  still  nearer  —  "  drawing  it  towards  her;  and  she 


286  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

pressed  it  with  her  dying  lips.   "  God  protect  you,  dear,  dear 
sir  —  and  once  more  receive  my  best  and  most  grateful  thanks 

—  and  tell  my  dear  Miss  Howe  —  and  vouchsafe  to  see  and  to 
tell  my  worthy  Norton  —  she  will  be  one  day,  I  fear  not,  though 
now  lowly  in  her  fortunes,  a  saint  in  heaven — tell  them  both 
that  I  remember  them  with  thankful  blessings  in  my  last  mo- 
ments !  —  and  pray  God  to  give  them  happiness  here  for  many, 
many  years,  for  the  sake  of  their  friends  and  lovers,  and  a  heav- 
enly crown  hereafter;  and  such  assurances  of  it  as  I  have, 
through  the  all-satisfying  merits  of  my  blessed  Redeemer." 

Her  sweet  voice  and  broken  periods  methinks  still  fill  my 
ears,  and  never  will  be  out  of  my  memory.  After  a  short  silence, 
in  a  more  broken  and  faint  accent  —  "And  you,  Mr.  Belford," 

—  pressing  my  hand,  "may  God  preserve  you,  and  make  you 
sensible  of  all  your  errors.  —  You  see,  in  me,  how  all  ends;  — 
may  you  be  — ''  And  down  sank  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  she 
fainting  away,  and  drawing  from  us  her  hands.  We  thought  she 
was  then  gone,  and  each  gave  way  to  a  violent  burst  of  grief. 
But,  soon  showing  signs  of  returning  life,  our  attention  was 
again  engaged ;  and  I  besought  her,  when  a  little  recovered,  to 
complete  in  my  favor  her  half-pronounced  blessing.  She  waved 
her  hand  to  us  both,  and  bowed  her  head  six  several  times,  as 
we  have  since  recollected,  as  if  distinguishing  every  person 
present,  not  forgetting  the  nurse  and  the  maid-servant,  —  the 
latter  having  approached  the  bed,  weeping,  as  if  crowding  in  for 
the  divine  lady's  last  blessing;  and  she  spoke  faltering  and  in- 
wardly —  -  "Bless  —  bless  —  bless  —  you  all  —  and  now  —  and 
now — "  (holding  up  her  almost  lifeless  hands  for  the  last  time) 
"come  —  oh  come  —  blessed  Lord  Jesus!"  And  with  these 
words,  the  last  but  half  pronounced,  expired;  —  such  a  smile, 
such  a  charming  serenity  overspreading  her  sweet  face  at  the 
instant,  as  seemed  to  manifest  her  eternal  happiness  already 
begun.  O  Lovelace!  —  But  I  can  write  no  more. 

I  resume  my  pen  to  add  a  few  lines. 

While  warm,  though  pulseless,  we  pressed  each  her  hand  with 
our  lips,  and  then  retired  into  the  next  room.  We  looked  at 
each  other,  with  intent  to  speak,  but  as  if  one  motion  governed, 
as  one  cause  affected  both,  we  turned  away  silent.  The  Colonel 
sighed  as  if  his  heart  would  burst;  at  last,  his  face  and  hands 


SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON  287 

uplifted,  his  back  towards  me,  —  "Good  heaven!"  said  he  to 
himself.  "Support  me!  And  is  it  thus,  O  flower  of  nature!" 
Then,  pausing,  "And  must  we  no  more  —  never  more!  —  My 
blessed,  blessed  cousin!"  -  uttering  some  other  words,  which 
his  sighs  made  inarticulate.  And  then,  as  if  recollecting  him- 
self, "Forgive  me,  sir!  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Belford!"  And,  slid- 
ing by  me,  "Anon  I  hope  to  see  you,  sir."  And  down  stairs  he 
went,  and  out  of  the  house,  leaving  me  a  statue.  When  I  re- 
covered, I  was  ready  to  repine  at  what  I  then  called  an  unequal 
dispensation,  forgetting  her  happy  preparation,  and  still  happier 
departure,  and  that  she  had  but  drawn  a  common  lot,  triumph- 
ing in  it,  and  leaving  behind  her  every  one  less  assured  of  hap- 
piness, though  equally  certain  that  the  lot  would  one  day  be 
their  own.  She  departed  exactly  at  forty  minutes  after  six 
o'clock,  as  by  her  watch  on  the  table. 

And  thus  died  Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe,  in  the  blossom  of  her 
youth  and  beauty;  and  who,  her  tender  years  considered,  has 
not  left  behind  her  her  superior  in  extensive  knowledge  and 
watchful  prudence,  nor  hardly  her  equal  for  unblemished  vir- 
tue, exemplary  piety,  sweetness  of  manners,  discreet  generos- 
ity, and  true  Christian  charity;  and  these  all  set  off  by  the  most 
graceful  modesty  and  humility,  yet  on  all  proper  occasions 
manifesting  a  noble  presence  of  mind,  and  true  magnanimity, 
so  that  she  may  be  said  to  have  been  not  only  an  ornament  to 
her  sex,  but  to  human  nature. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON,  BART. 

1753 

PREFACE 

THE  editor  of  the  following  letters  takes  leave  to  observe  that 
he  has  now,  in  this  publication,  completed  the  plan  that  was  the 
object  of  his  wishes,  rather  than  of  his  hopes,  to  accomplish. 

The  first  collection  which  he  published,  entitled  Pamela,  ex- 
hibited the  beauty  and  superiority  of  virtue  in  an  innocent  and 
unpolished  mind,  with  the  reward  which  often,  even  in  this  life, 
a  protecting  Providence  bestows  on  goodness.  A  young  woman 
of  low  degree,  relating  to  her  honest  parents  the  severe  trials  she 
met  with  from  a  master  who  ought  to  have  been  the  protector, 


288  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

not  theassailerof  her  honor,  shows  the  character  of  a  libertine  in 
its  truly  contemptible  light.  This  libertine,  however,  from  the 
foundation  of  good  principles  laid  in  his  early  years  by  an  excel- 
lent mother,  by  his  passion  for  a  virtuous  young  woman,  and 
by  her  amiable  example  and  unwearied  patience  when  she  be- 
came his  wife,  is,  after  a  length  of  time,  perfectly  reclaimed. 

The  second  collection,  published  under  the  title  of  Clarissa, 
displayed  a  more  melancholy  scene.  A  young  lady  of  higher 
fortune,  and  born  to  happier  hopes,  is  seen  involved  in  such  a 
variety  of  deep  distresses  as  lead  her  to  an  untimely  death; 
affording  a  warning  to  parents  against  forcing  the  inclinations 
of  their  children  in  the  most  important  article  of  their  lives,  and 
to  children  against  hoping  too  far  from  the  fairest  assurances  of 
a  man  void  of  principle.  The  heroine,  however,  as  a  truly  Chris- 
tian heroine,  proves  superior  to  her  trials,  and  her  heart,  always 
excellent,  refined,  and  exalted  by  every  one  of  them,  rejoices 
in  the  approach  of  a  happy  eternity.  Her  cruel  destroyer  ap- 
pears wretched  and  disappointed,  even  in  the  boasted  success 
of  his  vile  machinations;  but  still,  buoyed  up  with  self-conceit 
and  vain  presumption,  he  goes  on,  after  every  short  fit  of  im- 
perfect, yet  terrifying  conviction,  hardening  himself  more  and 
more,  till,  unreclaimed  by  the  most  affecting  warnings  and  re- 
peated admonitions,  he  perishes  miserably  in  the  bloom  of  life, 
and  sinks  into  the  grave,  oppressed  with  guilt,  remorse,  and 
horror.  His  letters,  it  is  hoped,  afford  many  useful  lessons  to 
the  gay  part  of  mankind,  against  that  misuse  of  wit  and  youth, 
of  rank  and  fortune,  and  of  every  outward  accomplishment, 
which  turns  them  into  a  curse  to  the  miserable  possessor  as 
well  as  to  all  around  him. 

Here  the  editor  apprehended  he  should  be  obliged  to  stop,  by 
reason  of  his  precarious  state  of  health,  and  a  variety  of  avoca- 
tions which  claimed  his  first  attention ;  but  it  was  insisted  on  by 
several  of  his  friends,  who  were  well  assured  he  had  the  materi- 
als in  his  power,  that  he  should  produce  into  public  view  the  char- 
acter and  actions  of  a  man  of  true  honor.  He  has  been  enabled 
to  obey  these  his  friends,  and  to  complete  his  first  design;  and 
now,  therefore,  presents  to  the  public,  in  Sir  Charles  Grandison, 
the  example  of  a  man  acting  uniformly  well  through  a  variety 
of  trying  scenes,  because  all  his  actions  are  regulated  by  one 
steady  principle.  A  man  of  religion  and  virtue,  of  liveliness  and 


SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON  289 

spirit,  accomplished  and  agreeable,  happy  in  himself,  and  a 
blessing  to  others. 

From  what  has  been  premised,  it  may  be  supposed  that  the 
present  collection  is  not  published  ultimately,  nor  even  prin- 
cipally, any  more  than  the  other  two,  for  the  sake  of  entertain- 
ment only.  A  much  nobler  end  is  in  view.  Yet  it  is  hoped  the 
variety  of  characters  and  conversations  necessarily  introduced 
into  so  large  a  correspondence  as  these  volumes  contain,  will 
enliven  as  well  as  instruct,  —  the  rather,  as  the  principal  corre- 
spondents are  young  ladies  of  polite  education  and  of  lively 
spirits. 

The  nature  of  familiar  letters,  written,  as  it  were,  to  the  mo- 
ment, while  the  heart  is  agitated  by  hopes  and  fears,  on  events 
undecided,  must  plead  an  excuse  for  the  bulk  of  a  collection  of 
this  kind.  Mere  facts  and  characters  might  be  comprised  in  a 
much  smaller  compass;  but  would  they  be  equally  interesting? 
It  happens  fortunately  that  an  account  of  the  juvenile  years  of 
the  principal  person  is  narratively  given  in  some  of  the  letters. 
As  many,  however,  as  could  be  spared  have  been  omitted.  There 
is  not  one  episode  in  the  whole,  nor,  after  Sir  Charles  Grandison 
is  introduced,  one  letter  inserted,  but  what  tends  to  illustrate 
the  principal  design.  .  .  . 

[THE  WOOING  OF  HARRIET] 
Harriet  Byron  to  Lady  Grandison 

.  .  .  After  some  general  conversation,  which  succeeded  our 
playing,  Sir  Charles  drew  his  chair  between  my  grandmamma 
and  aunt,  and,  taking  my  grandmamma's  hand,  "May  I  not 
be  allowed  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  conversation  with  Miss  Byron 
in  your  presence,  ladies?"  said  he,  speaking  low.  "We  have, 
indeed,  only  friends  and  relations  present;  but  it  will  be  most 
agreeable,  I  believe,  to  the  dear  lady,  that  what  I  have  to  say 
to  her,  and  to  you,  may  be  rather  reported  to  the  gentlemen 
than  heard  by  them." 

"By  all  means,  Sir  Charles,"  said  my  grandmamma.  Then, 
whispering  to  my  aunt,  "No  man  in  this  company  thinks,  but 
Sir  Charles.  Excuse  me,  my  dear." 

The  moment  Sir  Charles  applied  himself  in  this  particular 
manner  to  them,  my  heart,  without  hearing  what  he  said,  was 


29o  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

at  my  mouth.  I  arose,  and  withdrew  to  the  cedar  parlor,  fol- 
lowed by  Lucy  and  Nancy.  The  gentlemen,  seeming  to  recol- 
lect themselves,  withdrew  likewise  to  another  apartment.  My 
aunt  came  to  me.  "Love!  But  ah!  my  dear,  how  you  tremble! 
You  must  come  with  me."  And  then  she  told  me  what  he  had 
said  to  my  grandmamma  and  her. 

"  I  have  no  courage  — none  at  all,"  said  I.  "  If  apprehension, 
if  timidity,  be  signs  of  love,  I  have  them  all.  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  has  not  one.".  .  . 

My  aunt  led  me  in  to  Sir  Charles  and  my  grandmamma.  He 
met  me  at  my  entrance  into  the  room,  and  in  the  most  engag- 
ing manner,  my  aunt  having  taken  her  seat,  conducted  me  to  a 
chair  which  happened  to  be  vacant  between  her  and  my  grand- 
mother. He  took  no  notice  of  my  emotion,  and  I  the  sooner 
recovered  myself,  and  still  the  sooner,  as  he  himself  seemed  to 
be  in  some  little  confusion.  However,  he  sat  down,  and  with  a 
manly,  yet  respectful  air,  his  voice  gaining  strength  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, thus  delivered  himself:  .  .  . 

Not  well  before,  I  was  more  than  once  apprehensive  of  faint- 
ing, as  he  talked,  agreeable  as  was  his  talk,  and  engaging  as 
was  his  manner.  My  grandmamma  and  aunt  saw  my  com- 
plexion change  at  his  particular  address  to  me  in  the  last  part 
of  his  speech.  Each  put  her  kind  hand  on  one  of  mine,  and 
held  it  on  it,  as  my  other  hand  held  my  handkerchief  now  to 
my  eyes,  and  now  as  a  cover  to  myself-felt  varying  cheek.  At 
the  same  moment  that  he  ceased  speaking,  he  took  our  triply 
united  hands  in  both  his,  and  in  the  most  respectful  yet 
graceful  manner  pressed  each  of  the  three  with  his  lips,  mine 
twice.  I  could  not  speak. 

My  grandmamma  and  aunt,  delighted,  yet  tears  standing  in 
their  eyes,  looked  upon  each  other,  and  upon  me,  each  as  ex- 
pecting the  other  to  speak. 

"  I  have,  perhaps,"  said  he,  with  some  emotion,  "taken  up 
too  much  of  Miss  Byron's  attention  on  this  my  first  personal 
declaration.  I  will  now  return  to  the  company  below.  To-mor- 
row I  will  do  myself  the  honor  to  dine  with  you.  We  will  for 
this  evening  postpone  the  important  subject.  Miss  Byron,  I 
presume,  will  be  best  pleased  to  have  it  so.  I  shall  to-morrow 
be  favored  with  the  result  of  your  deliberations.  Meantime, 
may  I  meet  with  an  interceding  friend  in  every  one  I  have  had 


SIR  CHARLES   GRANDISON  291 

the  pleasure  to  see  this  day!  I  must  flatter  myself  with  the 
honor  of  Miss  Byron's  whole  heart,  as  well  as  with  the  appro- 
bation of  all  her  friends.  I  cannot  be  thought  at  present  to 
deserve  it;  but  it  shall  be  the  endeavor  of  my  life  to  do  so." 

He  withdrew,  with  a  grace  which  was  all  his  own. 

The  moment  he  was  gone  from  us,  my  grandmamma  threw 
her  arms  about  her  Harriet,  then  about  my  aunt;  and  they 
congratulated  me,  and  each  other.  .  .  . 

Miss  Byron,  in  continuation 

.  .  .  After  breakfast  first  one,  then  another,  dropped  away, 
and  left  only  Sir  Charles  and  me  together.  Lucy  was  the  last 
that  went,  and  the  moment  she  was  withdrawn,  while  I  was 
thinking  to  retire  to  dress,  he  placed  himself  by  me. 

"Think  me  not  abrupt,  my  dearest  Miss  Byron,"  said  he, 
"  that  I  take  almost  the  only  opportunity  which  has  offered  of 
entering  upon  a  subject  that  is  next  my  heart." 

I  found  my  face  glow.  I  was  silent. 

"  You  have  given  me  hope,  madam;  all  your  friends  encour- 
age that  hope.  I  love,  I  revere  your  friends.  What  I  have  now 
to  petition  for  is  a  confirmation  of  the  hope  I  have  presumed 
upon.  Can  you,  madam  (the  female  delicacy  is  more  delicate 
than  that  of  man  can  be),  unequally  as  you  may  think  yourself 
circumstanced  with  a  man  who  owns  that  once  he  could  have 
devoted  himself  to  another  lady,  —  can  you  say  that  the  man 
before  you  is  the  man  whom  you  can,  whom  you  do  prefer  to 
any  other?  " 

He  stopped,  expecting  my  answer. 

After  some  hesitations,  "I  have  been  accustomed,  sir," 
said  I,  "by  those  friends  whom  you  so  deservedly  value,  to 
speak  nothing  but  the  simplest  truth.  In  an  article  of  this 
moment,  I  should  be  inexcusable  if  — " 

I  stopped.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  my  face.  For  my  life  I 
could  not  speak,  yet  wished  to  be  able  to  speak. 

"If  —  if  what,  madam?"  And  he  snatched  my  hand,  bowed 
his  face  upon  it,  held  it  there,  not  looking  up  to  mine.  I  could 
then  speak. 

"If,  thus  urged,  and  by  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  I  did  not 
speak  my  heart.  I  answer  —  sir,  I  CAN  —  I  DO." 

I  wanted,  I  thought,  just  then,  to  shrink  into  myself. 


292  SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 

He  kissed  my  hand  with  fervor,  dropped  down  on  one  knee 
—  again  kissed  it.  "  You  have  laid  me,  madam,  under  ever- 
lasting obligation;  and  will  you  permit  me  before  I  rise  — 
loveliest  of  women,  will  you  permit  me  to  beg  an  early  day?  I 
have  many  affairs  on  my  hands;  many  more  in  design,  now  I 
am  come,  as  I  hope,  to  settle  in  my  native  country  for  the  rest 
of  my  life.  My  chief  glory  will  be  to  behave  commendably  in 
the  private  life.  I  wish  not  to  be  a  public  man,  and  it  must 
be  a  very  particular  call,  for  the  service  of  my  king  and  country 
united,  that  shall  draw  me  out  into  public  notice.  Make  me, 
madam,  soon  the  happy  husband  I  hope  to  be.  I  prescribe 
not  to  you  the  time,  but  you  are  above  empty  forms.  May  I 
presume  to  hope  it  will  be  before  the  end  of  a  month  to  come?  " 

He  had  forgot  himself.  He  said  he  would  not  prescribe  to  me. 

After  some  involuntary  hesitations,  "I  am  afraid  of  no- 
thing so  much  just  now,  sir,"  said  I,  "as  appearing,  to  a  man 
of  your  honor  and  penetration,  affected.  Rise,  sir,  I  beseech 
you.  I  cannot  bear  — 

"Twill,  madam,  and  rise  as  well  as  kneel,  to  thank  you,  when 
you  have  answered  a  question  so  very  important  to  my  happi- 
ness." .  .  . 

"  I  hope,  sir,  you  will  not  be  displeased.  I  did  not  think  you 
would  so  soon  be  so  very  earnest.  But  this,  sir,  I  say,  —  let 
me  have  reason  to  think  that  my  happiness  will  not  be  the 
misfortune  of  a  more  excellent  woman,  and  it  shall  be  my  en- 
deavor to  make  the  man  happy  who  only  can  make  me  so." 

He  clasped  me  in  his  arms  with  an  ardor  that  displeased 
me  not,  on  reflection,  but  at  the  time  startled  me.  He  then 
thanked  me  again  on  one  knee.  I  held  out  the  hand  he  had  not 
in  his,  with  intent  to  raise  him,  for  I  could  not  speak.  He  re- 
ceived it  as  a  token  of  favor,  kissed  it  with  ardor,  arose,  — 
again  pressed  my  cheek  with  his  lips.  I  was  too  much  sur- 
prised to  repulse  him  with  anger;  but  was  he  not  too  free?  .  .  « 


HENRY  FIELDING 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

ANDREWS 

1742 

PREFACE 

As  it  is  possible  the  mere  English  reader  may  have  a  different 
idea  of  romance  from  the  author  of  these  little  volumes,  and 
may  consequently  expect  a  kind  of  entertainment  not  to  be 
found,  nor  which  was  even  intended,  in  the  following  pages,  it 
may  not  be  improper  to  premise  a  few  words  concerning  this 
kind  of  writing,  which  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  hitherto 
attempted  in  our  language. 

The  Epic,  as  well  as  the  Drama,  is  divided  into  tragedy  and 
comedy.  Homer,  who  was  the  father  of  this  species  of  poetry, 
gave  us  a  pattern  of  both  these,  though  that  of  the  latter  kind 
is  entirely  lost;  which  Aristotle  tells  us  bore  the  same  relation 
to  comedy  which  his  Iliad  bears  to  tragedy.  And  perhaps,  that 
we  have  no  more  instances  of  it  among  the  writers  of  antiquity 
is  owing  to  the  loss  of  this  great  pattern,  which,  had  it  survived, 
would  have  found  its  imitators  equally  with  the  other  poems  of 
this  great  original. 

And  farther,  as  this  poetry  may  be  tragic  or  comic,  I  will  not 
scruple  to  say  it  may  be  likewise  either  in  verse  or  prose;  for 
though  it  wants  one  particular,  which  the  critic  enumerates  in 
the  constituent  parts  of  an  epic  poem,  namely  metre,  yet  when 
any  kind  of  writing  contains  all  its  other  parts  —  such  as  fable, 
action,  characters,  sentiments,  and  diction  —  and  is  deficient 
in  metre  only,  it  seems,  I  think,  reasonable  to  refer  it  to  the 
epic;  at  least,  as  no  critic  hath  thought  proper  to  range  it  under 
another  head,  or  to  assign  it  a  particular  name  to  itself. 

Thus  the  name  Telemachus  of  the  Archbishop  of  Cambray  * 
appears  to  me  of  the  epic  kind,  as  well  as  the  Odyssey  of  Homer; 
indeed,  it  is  much  fairer  and  more  reasonable  to  give  it  a  name 

1  F£nelon. 


294  HENRY  FIELDING 

common  with  that  species  from  which  it  differs  only  in  a  single 
instance,  than  to  confound  it  with  those  which  it  resembles  in 
no  other.  Such  as  those  voluminous  works,  commonly  called 
Romances,  —  namely  Clelia,  Cleopatra,  Astraa,  Cassandra, 
The  Grand  Cyrus,  and  innumerable  others,  which  contain,  as  I 
apprehend,  very  little  instruction  or  entertainment. 

Now  a  comic  romance  is  a  comic  epic  poem  in  prose,  differing 
from  comedy  as  the  serious  epic  from  tragedy;  its  action  being 
more  extended  and  comprehensive,  containing  a  much  larger 
circle  of  incidents,  and  introducing  a  greater  variety  of  char- 
acters. It  differs  from  the  serious  romance  in  its  fable  and  ac- 
tion, in  this:  that  as  in  the  one  these  are  grave  and  solemn,  so 
in  the  other  they  are  light  and  ridiculous.  It  differs  in  its  char- 
acters by  introducing  persons  of  inferior  rank,  and  consequently 
of  inferior  manners,  whereas  the  grave  romance  sets  the  highest 
before  us.  Lastly,  in  its  sentiments  and  diction,  by  preserving 
the  ludicrous  instead  of  the  sublime.  In  the  diction,  I  think, 
burlesque  itself  may  be  sometimes  admitted;  of  which  many 
instances  will  occur  in  this  work,  as  in  the  description  of  the 
battles,  and  some  other  places  not  necessary  to  be  pointed  out 
to  the  classical  reader,  for  whose  entertainment  those  parodies 
or  burlesque  imitations  are  chiefly  calculated. 

But,  though  we  have  sometimes  admitted  this  in  our  diction, 
we  have  carefully  excluded  it  from  our  sentiments  and  charac- 
ters; for  there  it  is  never  properly  introduced,  unless  in  writings 
of  the  burlesque  kind,  which  this  is  not  intended  to  be.  Indeed, 
no  two  species  of  writing  can  differ  more  widely  than  the  comic 
and  the  burlesque;  for  as  the  latter  is  ever  the  exhibition  of 
what  is  monstrous  and  unnatural,  and  where  our  delight,  if  we 
examine  it,  arises  from  the  surprising  absurdity,  as  in  appro- 
priating the  manners  of  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  or  e  converso, 
so  in  the  former  we  should  ever  confine  ourselves  strictly  to 
nature,  from  the  just  imitation  of  which  will  flow  all  the  pleas- 
ure we  can  this  way  convey  to  a  sensible  reader.  And  perhaps 
there  is  one  reason  why  a  comic  writer  should  of  all  others  be 
the  least  excused  for  deviating  from  nature,  since  it  may  not 
be  always  so  easy  for  a  serious  poet  to  meet  with  the  great  and 
admirable,  but  life  everywhere  furnishes  an  accurate  observer 
with  the  ridiculous. 

I  have  hinted  this  little  concerning  burlesque,  because  I  have 


JOSEPH  ANDREWS  295 

often  heard  that  name  given  to  performances  which  have  been 
truly  of  the  comic  kind,  from  the  author's  having  sometimes 
admitted  it  in  his  diction  only ;  which,  as  it  is  the  dress  of  poetry, 
doth,  like  the  dress  of  men,  establish  characters  (the  one  of  the 
whole  poem,  and  the  other  of  the  whole  man)  in  vulgar  opinion, 
beyond  any  of  their  greater  excellences.  But  surely  a  certain 
drollery  in  style,  where  characters  and  sentiments  are  perfectly 
natural,  no  more  constitutes  the  burlesque,  than  an  empty 
pomp  and  dignity  of  words,  where  everything  else  is  mean  and 
low,  can  entitle  any  performance  to  the  appellation  of  the  true 
sublime. 

And  I  apprehend  my  Lord  Shaftesbury's  opinion  of  mere 
burlesque  agrees  with  mine,  when  he  asserts  there  is  no  such 
thing  to  be  found  in  the  writings  of  the  ancients.  But  perhaps 
I  have  less  abhorrence  than  he  professes  for  it;  and  that,  not 
because  I  have  had  some  little  success  on  the  stage  this  way, 
but  rather  as  it  contributes  more  to  exquisite  mirth  and  laugh- 
ter than  any  other;  and  these  are  probably  more  wholesome 
physic  for  the  mind,  and  conduce  better  to  purge  away  spleen, 
melancholy,  and  ill  affections,  than  is  generally  imagined.  Nay, 
I  will  appeal  to  common  observation,  whether  the  same  com- 
panies are  not  found  more  full  of  good-humor  and  benevolence, 
after  they  have  been  sweetened  for  two  or  three  hours  with 
entertainments  of  this  kind,  than  when  soured  by  a  tragedy  or 
a  grave  lecture. 

But  to  illustrate  all  this  by  another  science,  in  which,  per- 
haps, we  shall  see  the  distinction  more  clearly  and  plainly,  let 
us  examine  the  works  of  a  comic  history  painter,  with  those  per- 
formances which  the  Italians  call  caricatura\  where  we  shall 
find  the  true  excellence  of  the  former  to  consist  in  the  exactest 
copying  of  nature,  insomuch  that  a  judicious  eye  instantly 
rejects  anything  outre,  any  liberty  which  the  painter  hath 
taken  with  the  features  of  that  alma  mater;  whereas  in  the  cari- 
catura  we  allow  all  license,  —  its  aim  is  to  exhibit  monsters, 
not  men,  and  all  distortions  and  exaggerations  whatever  are 
within  its  proper  province. 

Now  what  caricatura  is  in  painting,  burlesque  is  in  writing; 
and  in  the  same  manner  the  comic  writer  and  painter  correlate 
to  each  other.  And  here  I  shall  observe  that,  as  in  the  former 
the  painter  seems  to  have  the  advantage,  so  it  is  in  the  latter 


296  HENRY  FIELDING 

infinitely  on  the  side  of  the  writer;  for  the  monstrous  is  much 
easier  to  paint  than  describe,  and  the  ridiculous  to  describe  than 
paint. 

And  though  perhaps  this  latter  species  doth  not  in  either 
science  so  strongly  affect  and  agitate  the  muscles  as  the  other, 
yet  it  will  be  owned,  I  believe,  that  a  more  rational  and  useful 
pleasure  arises  to  us  from  it.  He  who  should  call  the  ingenious 
Hogarth  a  burlesque  painter  would,  in  my  opinion,  do  him 
very  little  honor;  for  sure  it  is  much  easier,  much  less  the 
subject  of  admiration,  to  paint  a  man  with  a  nose,  or  any  other 
feature,  of  a  preposterous  size,  or  to  expose  him  in  some  absurd 
or  monstrous  attitude,  than  to  express  the  affections  of  men  on 
canvas.  It  hath  been  thought  a  vast  commendation  of  a  painter 
to  say  his  figures  seem  to  breathe ;  but  surely  it  is  a  much  greatei 
and  nobler  applause  that  they  appear  to  think. 

But  to  return.  The  ridiculous  only,  as  I  have  before  said, 
falls  within  my  province  in  the  present  work.  Nor  will  some 
explanation  of  the  word  be  thought  impertinent  by  the  reader, 
if  he  considers  how  wonderfully  it  hath  been  mistaken,  even 
by  writers  who  have  professed  it.  For  to  what  but  such  a  mis- 
take can  we  attribute  the  many  attempts  to  ridicule  the  black- 
est villainies,  and,  what  is  yet  worse,  the  most  dreadful  calami- 
ties? What  could  exceed  the  absurdity  of  an  author  who  should 
write  the  comedy  of  Nero,  with  the  merry  incident  of  ripping 
up  his  mother's  belly?  Or  what  would  give  a  greater  shock  to 
humanity  than  an  attempt  to  expose  the  miseries  of  poverty 
and  distress  to  ridicule?  And  yet  the  reader  will  not  want  much 
learning  to  suggest  such  instances  to  himself. 

Besides,  it  may  seem  remarkable  that  Aristotle,  who  is  so 
fond  and  free  of  definitions,  hath  not  thought  proper  to  define 
the  ridiculous.  Indeed,  where  he  tells  us  it  is  proper  to  comedy, 
he  hath  remarked  that  villainy  is  not  its  object ;  but  he  hath  not, 
as  I  remember,  positively  asserted  what  is.  Nor  doth  the  Abbe 
Bellegarde,  who  hath  written  a  treatise  on  this  subject,  though 
he  shows  us  many  species  of  it,  once  trace  it  to  its  fountain. 

The  only  source  of  the  true  ridiculous,  as  it  appears  to  me,  is 
affectation.  But  though  it  arises  from  one  spring  only,  when 
we  consider  the  infinite  streams  into  which  this  one  branches, 
we  shall  presently  cease  to  admire  at  the  copious  field  it  affords 
to  an  observer.  Now  affectation  proceeds  from  one  of  these  two 


JOSEPH  ANDREWS  297 

causes,  vanity  or  hypocrisy;  for  as  vanity  puts  us  on  affecting 
false  characters,  in  order  to  purchase  applause,  so  hypocrisy 
sets  us  on  an  endeavor  to  avoid  censure,  by  concealing  our  vices 
under  an  appearance  of  their  opposite  virtues.  And  though 
these  two  causes  are  often  confounded  (for  there  is  some  diffi- 
culty in  distinguishing  them),  yet,  as  they  proceed  from  very 
different  motives,  so  they  are  as  clearly  distinct  in  their  opera- 
tions; for,  indeed,  the  affectation  which  arises  from  vanity  is 
nearer  to  truth  than  the  other,  as  it  hath  not  that  violent  repug- 
nancy of  nature  to  struggle  with,  which  that  of  the  hypocrite 
hath.  It  may  be  Likewise  noted  that  affectation  doth  not  imply 
an  absolute  negation  of  those  qualities  which  are  affected,  and 
therefore,  though,  when  it  proceeds  from  hypocrisy,  it  be  nearly 
allied  to  deceit,  yet  when  it  comes  from  vanity  only,  it  partakes 
of  the  nature  of  ostentation.  For  instance,  the  affectation  of 
liberality  in  a  vain  man  differs  visibly  from  the  same  affecta- 
tion in  the  avaricious;  fo^  though  the  vain  man  is  not  what  he 
would  appear,  or  hath  not  the  virtue  he  affects,  to  the  degree 
he  would  be  thought  to  have  it,  yet  it  sits  less  awkwardly  on 
him  than  on  the  avaricious  man,  who  is  the  very  reverse  of 
what  he  would  seem  to  be. 

From  the  discovery  of  this  affectation  arises  the  ridiculous, 
which  always  strikes  the  reader  with  surprise  and  pleasure, 
and  that  in  a  higher  and  stronger  degree  when  the  affectation 
arises  from  hypocrisy  than  when  from  vanity;  for  to  discover 
any  one  to  be  the  exact  reverse  of  what  he  affects  is  more  sur- 
prising, and  consequently  more  ridiculous,  than  to  find  him  a 
little  deficient  in  the  quality  he  desires  the  reputation  of.  I 
might  observe  that  our  Ben  Jonson,  who  of  all  men  understood 
the  ridiculous  the  best,  hath  chiefly  used  the  hypocritical  affec- 
tation. 

Now  from  affectation  only,  the  misfortunes  and  calamities  of 
life,  or  the  imperfections  of  nature,  may  become  the  objects  of 
ridicule.  Surely  he  hath  a  very  ill-framed  mind  who  can  look 
on  ugliness,  infirmity,  or  poverty,  as  ridiculous  in  themselves; 
nor  do  I  believe  any  man  living,  who  meets  a  dirty  fellow  riding 
through  the  streets  in  a  cart,  is  struck  with  an  idea  of  the  ridicu- 
lous from  it.  But  if  he  should  see  the  same  figure  descend  from 
his  coach  and  six,  or  bolt  from  his  chair  with  his  hat  under  his 
arm,  he  would  then  begin  to  laugh,  and  with  justice.  In  the 


298  HENRY  FIELDING 

same  manner,  were  we  to  enter  a  poor  house  and  behold  a 
wretched  family  shivering  with  cold  and  languishing  with 
hunger,  it  would  not  incline  us  to  laughter  (at  least  we  must 
have  very  diabolical  natures  if  it  would).  But  should  we  dis- 
cover there  a  grate,  instead  of  coals,  adorned  with  flowers, 
empty  plate  or  china  dishes  on  the  sideboard,  or  any  other 
affectation  of  riches  and  finery,  either  on  their  persons  or  in 
their  furniture,  we  might  then  indeed  be  excused  for  ridiculing 
so  fantastical  an  appearance.  Much  less  are  natural  imper- 
fections the  object  of  derision;  but  when  ugliness  aims  at  the 
applause  of  beauty,  or  lameness  endeavors  to  display  agility,  it 
is  then  that  these  unfortunate  circumstances,  which  at  first 
moved  our  compassion,  tend  only  to  raise  our  mirth. 
The  poet  carries  this  very  far:  — 

None  are  for  being  what  they  are  In  fault, 
But  for  not  being  what  they  would  be  thought. 

Where,  if  the  metre  would  suffer  the  word  ridiculous  to  close 
the  first  line,  the  thought  would  be  rather  more  proper.  Great 
vices  are  the  proper  objects  of  our  detestation,  smaller  faults 
of  our  pity;  but  affectation  appears  to  me  the  only  true  source 
of  the  ridiculous. 

But  perhaps  it  may  be  objected  to  me  that  I  have,  against 
my  own  rules,  introduced  vices,  and  of  a  very  black  kind,  into 
this  work.  To  which  I  shall  answer,  first,  that  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  pursue  a  series  of  human  actions,  and  keep  clear  from 
them.  Secondly,  that  the  vices  to  be  found  here  are  rather  the 
accidental  consequences  of  some  human  frailty  or  foible,  than 
causes  habitually  existing  in  the  mind.  Thirdly,  that  they  are 
never  set  forth  as  the  objects  of  ridicule,  but  detestation. 
Fourthly,  that  they  are  never  the  principal  figure  at  that  time 
on  the  scene;  and  lastly,  they  never  produce  the  intended 
evil.  .  .  . 

AN    INTERVIEW    BETWEEN    PARSON    ADAMS    AND    PARSON 

TRULLIBER 
[BOOK  n,  CHAPTER  xiv] 

Parson  Adams  came  to  the  house  of  parson  Trulliber,  whom 
fie  found  stripped  into  his  waistcoat,  with  an  apron  on,  and  a 
pail  in  his  hand,  just  come  from  serving  his  hogs;  for  Mr.  Trulli- 


JOSEPH  ANDREWS  299 

ber  was  a  parson  on  Sundays,  but  all  the  other  six' days  might 
more  properly  be  called  a  farmer.  He  occupied  a  small  piece  of 
land  of  his  own,  besides  which  he  rented  a  considerable  deal 
more.  His  wife  milked  his  cows,  managed  his  dairy,  and  fol- 
lowed the  markets  with  butter  and  eggs.  The  hogs  fell  chiefly 
to  his  care,  which  he  carefully  waited  on  at  home,  and  attended 
to  fairs;  on  which  occasion  he  was  liable  to  many  jokes,  his  own 
size  being,  with  much  ale,  rendered  little  inferior  to  that  of  the 
beasts  he  sold.  He  was  indeed  one  of  the  largest  men  you  should 
see,  and  could  have  acted  the  part  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  without 
stuffing.  Add  to  this  that  the  rotundity  of  his  belly  was  con- 
siderably increased  by  the  shortness  of  his  stature,  his  shadow 
ascending  very  near  as  far  in  height,  when  he  lay  on  his  back, 
as  when  he  stood  on  his  legs.  His  voice  was  loud  and  hoarse, 
and  his  accent  extremely  broad.  To  complete  the  whole,  he  had 
a  stateliness  in  his  gait,  when  he  walked,  not  unlike  that  of  a 
goose,  only  he  stalked  slower. 

Mr.  Trulliber,  being  informed  that  somebody  wanted  to 
speak  with  him,  immediately  slipped  off  his  apron  and  clothed 
himself  in  an  old  night-gown,  being  the  dress  in  which  he  always 
saw  his  company  at  home.  His  wife,  who  informed  him  of  Mr. 
Adams's  arrival,  had  made  a  small  mistake,  for  she  had  told 
her  husband  she  believed  there  was  a  man  come  for  some  of  his 
hogs.  This  supposition  made  Mr.  Trulliber  hasten  with  the 
utmost  expedition  to  attend  his  guest.  He  no  sooner  saw  Adams 
than,  not  in  the  least  doubting  the  cause  of  his  errand  to  be 
what  his  wife  had  imagined,  he  told  him  he  was  come  in  very 
good  time;  that  he  expected  a  dealer  that  very  afternoon;  and 
added,  they  were  all  pure  and  fat,  and  upwards  of  twenty 
score  apiece.  Adams  answered  he  believed  he  did  not  know 
him.  "  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Trulliber,  "  I  have  seen  you  often  at 
fair.  Why,  we  have  dealt  before  now,  mun,  I  warrant  you.  Yes, 
yes,"  cries  he,  "  I  remember  thy  face  very  well,  though  I  have 
never  sold  thee  a  flitch  of  such  bacon  as  is  now  in  the  sty." 
Upon  which  he  laid  violent  hands  on  Adams,  and  dragged  him 
into  the  hogs'  sty,  which  was  indeed  but  two  steps  from  his 
parlor  window.  They  were  no  sooner  arrived  there  than  he 
cried  out,  "  Do  but  handle  them!  Step  in,  friend;  art  welcome 
to  handle  them,  whether  dost  buy  or  no."  At  which  words, 
opening  the  gate,  he  pushed  Adams  into  the  pig-sty,  insisting 


300  HENRY   FIELDING 

on  it  that  he  should  handle  them  before  he  would  talk  one 
word  with  him. 

Adams,  whose  natural  complacence  was  beyond  any  artifi- 
cial, was  obliged  to  comply  before  he  was  suffered  to  explain 
himself;  and,  laying  hold  on  one  of  their  tails,  the  unruly  beast 
gave  such  a  sudden  spring  that  he  threw  poor  Adams  all  along 
in  the  mire.  Trulliber,  instead  of  assisting  him  to  get  up,  burst 
into  a  laughter,  and,  entering  the  sty,  said  to  Adams,  with 
some  contempt,  "Why,  dost  not  know  how  to  handle  a  hog?" 
and  was  going  to  lay  hold  of  one  himself;  but  Adams,  who 
thought  he  had  carried  his  complacence  far  enough,  was  no 
sooner  on  his  legs  than  he  escaped  out  of  the  reach  of  the  ani- 
mals, and  cried  out,  "Nil  habeo  cum  porcis;  I  am  a  clergyman, 
sir,  and  am  not  come  to  buy  hogs." 

Trulliber  answered,  he  was  sorry  for  his  mistake,  but  that  he 
must  blame  his  wife;  adding,  she  was  a  fool,  and  always  com- 
mitted blunders.  He  then  desired  him  to  walk  in  and  clean  him- 
self, that  he  would  only  fasten  up  the  sty  and  follow  him. 
Adams  desired  leave  to  dry  his  great-coat,  wig,  and  hat  by  the 
fire,  which  Trulliber  granted.  Mrs.  Trulliber  would  have 
brought  him  a  basin  of  water  to  wash  his  face,  but  her  husband 
bid  her  be  quiet  like  a  fool  as  she  was,  or  she  would  commit 
more  blunders,  and  then  directed  Adams  to  the  pump.  While 
Adams  was  thus  employed,  Trulliber,  conceiving  no  great 
respect  for  the  appearance  of  his  guest,  fastened  the  parlor  door, 
and  now  conducted  him  into  the  kitchen,  telling  him  he  believed 
a  cup  of  drink  would  do  him  no  harm,  and  whispered  his  wife 
to  draw  a  little  of  the  worst  ale. 

After  a  short  silence  Adams  said,  "I  fancy,  sir,  you  already 
perceive  me  to  be  a  clergyman."  "Aye,  aye,"  cries  Trulliber, 
grinning,  "  I  perceive  you  have  some  cassock;  I  will  not  venture 
to  caale  it  a  whole  one."  Adams  answered  it  was  indeed  none 
of  the  best,  but  he  had  the  misfortune  to  tear  it  about  ten  years 
ago,  in  passing  over  a  stile.  Mrs.  Trulliber,  returning  with  the 
drink,  told  her  husband  she  fancied  the  gentleman  was  a  trav- 
eler, and  that  he  would  be  glad  to  eat  a  bit.  Trulliber  bid  her 
hold  her  impertinent  tongue,  and  asked  her  if  parsons  used  to 
travel  without  horses,  adding,  he  supposed  the  gentleman  had 
none  by  his  having  no  boots  on.  "Yes,  sir,  yes,"  says  Adams; 
"I  have  a  horse,,  but  I  have  left  him  behind  me."  "I  am  glad 


JOSEPH  ANDREWS  301 

to  hear  you  have  one,"  says  Trulliber,  "for  I  assure  you  I  don't 
love  to  see  clergymen  on  foot;  it  is  not  seemly,  nor  suiting  the 
dignity  of  the  cloth." 

Here  Trulliber  made  a  long  oration  on  the  dignity  of  the  cloth 
(or  rather  gown),  not  much  worth  relating,  till  his  wife  had 
spread  the  table  and  set  a  mess  of  porridge  on  it  for  his  break- 
fast. He  then  said  to  Adams,  "I  don't  know,  friend,  how  you 
came  to  caale  on  me;  however,  as  you  are  here,  if  you  think 
proper  to  eat  a  morsel,  you  may."  Adams  accepted  the  invita- 
tion, and  the  two  parsons  sat  down  together,  Mrs.  Trulliber 
waiting  behind  her  husband's  chair,  as  was,  it  seems,  her  cus- 
tom. Trulliber  ate  heartily,  but  scarce  put  anything  in  his 
mouth  without  finding  fault  with  his  wife's  cookery;  all  which 
the  poor  woman  bore  patiently.  Indeed,  she  was  so  absolute 
an  admirer  of  her  husband's  greatness  and  importance,  of  which 
she  had  frequent  hints  from  his  own  mouth,  that  she  almost  car- 
ried her  adoration  to  an  opinion  of  his  infallibility.  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  their  breakfast  was  ended,  Adams  began  in  the 
following  manner:  "I  think,  sir,  it  is  high  time  to  inform  you  of 
the  business  of  my  embassy.  I  am  a  traveler,  and  am  passing 
this  way  in  company  with  two  young  people,  a  lad  and  a  dam- 
sel, my  parishioners,  towards  my  own  cure.  We  stopped  at  a 
house  of  hospitality  in  the  parish,  where  they  directed  me  to 
you  as  having  the  cure."  "Though  I  am  but  a  curate,"  says 
Trulliber,  "I  believe  I  am  as  warm  as  the  vicar  himself,  or  per- 
haps the  rector  of  the  next  parish  too;  I  believe  I  could  buy 
them  both."  "Sir,"  cries  Adams,  "I  rejoice  thereat.  Now,  sir, 
my  business  is,  that  we  are  by  various  accidents  stripped  of  our 
money,  and  are  not  able  to  pay  our  reckoning,  being  seven  shil- 
lings. I  therefore  request  you  to  assist  me  with  the  loan  of 
those  seven  shillings,  and  also  seven  shillings  more ;  which, 
peradventure,  I  shall  return  to  you,  but  if  not,  I  am  convinced 
you  will  joyfully  embrace  such  an  opportunity  of  laying  up 
treasure  in  a  better  place  than  any  this  world  affords." 

Suppose  a  stranger,  who  entered  the  chambers  of  a  lawyer, 
being  imagined  a  client,  when  the  lawyer  was  preparing  his 
palm  for  the  fee,  should  pull  out  a  writ  against  him.  Suppose 
an  apothecary,  at  the  door  of  a  chariot  containing  some  great 
doctor  of  eminent  skill,  should,  instead  of  directions  to  a  pa- 
tient, present  him  with  a  potion  for  himself.  Suppose  a  minis- 


302  HENRY  FIELDING 

ter  should,  instead  of  a  good  round  sum,  treat  my  Lord ,  or 

Sir ,  or  Esq.  —  — ,  with  a  good  broomstick.  Suppose  a  civil 

companion,  or  a  led  captain,  should,  instead  of  virtue  and  honor 
and  beauty  and  parts  and  admiration,  thunder  vice  and  in- 
famy and  ugliness  and  folly  and  contempt  in  his  patron's  ears. 
Suppose,  when  a  tradesman  first  carries  in  his  bill,  the  man  of 
fashion  should  pay  it;  or  suppose,  if  he  did  so,  the  tradesman 
should  abate  what  he  had  overcharged  on  the  supposition  of 
waiting.  In  short,  suppose  what  you  will,  you  never  can  nor 
will  suppose  anything  equal  to  the  astonishment  which  seized 
on  Trulliber,  as  soon  as  Adams  had  ended  his  speech.  A  while 
he  rolled  his  eyes  in  silence,  sometimes  surveying  Adams,  then 
his  wife,  then  casting  them  on  the  ground,  then  lifting  them  up 
to  heaven.  At  last  he  burst  forth  in  the  following  accents :  — 

"Sir,  I  believe  I  know  where  to  lay  up  my  little  treasure  as 
well  as  another.  I  thank  G — ,  if  I  am  not  so  warm  as  some,  I 
am  content;  that  is  a  blessing  greater  than  riches,  and  he  to 
whom  that  is  given  need  ask  no  more.  To  be  content  with  a 
little  is  greater  than  to  possess  the  world,  which  a  man  may 
possess  without  being  so.  Lay  up  my  treasure!  What  matters 
where  a  man's  treasure  is  whose  heart  is  in  the  Scriptures? 
There  is  the  treasure  of  a  Christian." 

At  these  words  the  water  ran  from  Adams's  eyes;  and,  catch- 
ing Trulliber  by  the  hand  in  a  rapture,  "Brother,"  says  he, 
"heavens  bless  the  accident  by  which  I  came  to  see  you!  I 
would  have  walked  many  a  mile  to  have  communed  with  you; 
and,  believe  me,  I  will  shortly  pay  you  a  second  visit.  But  my 
friends,  I  fancy,  by  this  time,  wonder  at  my. stay ;  so  let  me  have 
the  money  immediately." 

Trulliber  then  put  on  a  stern  look,  and  cried  out,  "  Thou  dost 
not  intend  to  rob  me?"  At  which  the  wife,  bursting  into  tears, 
fell  on  her  knees  and  roared  out,  "O  dear  sir!  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  rob  my  master;  we  are  but  poor  people."  "  Get  up,  for  a 
fool  as  thou  art,  and  go  about  thy  business!"  said  Trulliber. 
"  Dost  think  the  man  will  venture  his  life?  He  is  a  beggar,  and 
no  robber."  "Very  true,  indeed,"  answered  Adams.  "I  wish, 
with  all  my  heart,  the  tithing-man  was  here,"  cries  Trulliber. 
"  I  would  have  thee  punished  as  a  vagabond  for  thy  impudence. 
Fourteen  shillings  indeed!  I  won't  give  thee  a  farthing.  I  be- 
lieve thou  art  no  more  a  clergyman  than  the  woman  there" 


JOSEPH  ANDREWS  303 

(pointing  to  his  wife);  "but  if  thou  art,  dost  deserve  to  have 
thy  gown  stripped  over  thy  shoulders,  for  running  about  the 
country  in  such  a  manner." 

"I  forgive  your  suspicions,"  says  Adams.  "But  suppose  I 
am  not  a  clergyman,  I  am  nevertheless  thy  brother;  and  thou, 
as  a  Christian,  much  more  as  a  clergyman,  art  obliged  to  relieve 
my  distress." 

"Dost  preach  tome?"  replied  Trulliber.  "Dost  pretend  to 
instruct  me  in  my  duty?"  "Ifacks,  a  good  story,"  cries  Mrs. 
Trulliber,  "to  preach  to  my  master."  "  Silence,  woman!"  cries 
Trulliber.  "I  would  have  thee  know,  friend  "  (addressing  him- 
self to  Adams),  "  I  shall  not  learn  my  duty  from  such  as  thee.  I 
know  what  charity  is,  better  than  to  give  to  vagabonds."  "  Be- 
sides, if  we  were  inclined,  the  poor's  rate  obliges  us  to  give  so 
much  charity,"  cries  the  wife.  "Pugh!  Thou  art  a  fool.  Poor's 
rate!  Hold  thy  nonsense!"  answered  Trulliber;  and  then, 
turning  to  Adams,  he  told  him  he  would  give  him  nothing. 

"I  am  sorry,"  answered  Adams,  "that  you  do  know  what 
charity  is,  since  you  practice  it  no  better.  I  must  tell  you,  if 
you  trust  to  your  knowledge  for  your  justification,  you  will  find 
yourself  deceived,  though  you  should  add  faith  to  it,  without 
good  works." 

"Fellow,"  cries  Trulliber,  "dost  thou  speak  against  faith  in 
my  house!  Get  out  of  my  doors;  I  will  no  longer  remain  under 
the  same  roof  with  a  wretch  who  speaks  wantonly  of  faith  and 
the  Scriptures."  "Name  not  the  Scriptures!"  says  Adams. 
"How!  Not  name  the  Scriptures !  Do  you  disbelieve  the  Scrip- 
tures?" cries  Trulliber.  "No;  but  you  do,"  answered  Adams, 
"  if  I  may  reason  from  your  practice;  for  their  commands  are  so 
explicit,  and  their  rewards  and  punishments  so  immense,  that  it 
is  impossible  a  man  should  stedfastly  believe  without  obeying. 
Now  there  is  no  command  more  express,  no  duty  more  fre- 
quently enjoined,  than  charity.  Whoever,  therefore,  is  void  of 
charity,  I  make  no  scruple  of  pronouncing  that  he  is  no  Chris- 
tian." 

"I  would  not  advise  thee,"  says  Trulliber,  "to  say  that  I  am 
no  Christian.  I  won't  take  it  of  you ;  for  I  believe  I  am  as  good  a 
man  as  thyself."  And  indeed,  though  he  was  now  rather  too 
corpulent  for  athletic  exercises,  he  had  in  his  youth  been  one  of 
the  best  boxers  and  cudgel-players  in  the  county.  His  wife, 


304  HENRY  FIELDING 

seeing  him  clench  his  fist,  interposed,  and  begged  him  not  to 
fight,  but  show  himself  a  true  Christian,  and  take  the  law  of 
him.  As  nothing  could  provoke  Adams  to  strike  but  an  abso- 
lute assault  on  himself  or  his  friend,  he  smiled  at  the  angry  look 
and  gestures  of  Trulliber,  and,  telling  him  he  was  sorry  to  see 
such  men  in  orders,  departed  without  further  ceremony. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  JONES,  A  FOUNDLING 

1749 

[Each  of  the  eighteen  Books  of  Tom  Jones  is  opened  with  an  introduc- 
tory chapter,  —  sometimes  an  informal  digression,  sometimes  a  formal 
critical  essay,  giving,  like  the  Preface  to  Joseph  Andrews,  important  views 
of  the  novelist's  conception  of  his  art.  The  following  extracts  include  the 
introductory  chapters  of  Books  I,  X,  and  XIII,  together  with  an  episode 
from  Book  XVI,  chapter  v.] 

THE  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  WORK,   OR  BILL  OF  FARE  TO  THE 

FEAST 

AN  author  ought  to  consider  himself,  not  as  a  gentleman  who 
gives  a  private  or  eleemosynary  treat,  but  rather  as  one  who 
keeps  a  public  ordinary,  at  which  all  persons  are  welcome  for 
their  money.  In  the  former  case,  it  is  well  known  that  the  en- 
tertainer provides  what  fare  he  pleases ;  and  though  this  should 
be  very  indifferent,  and  utterly  disagreeable  to  the  taste  of  his 
company,  they  must  not  find  any  fault;  nay,  on  the  contrary, 
good  breeding  forces  them  outwardly  to  approve  and  to  com- 
mend whatever  is  set  before  them.  Now  the  contrary  of  this 
happens  to  the  master  of  an  ordinary.  Men  who  pay  for  what 
they  eat  will  insist  on  gratifying  their  palates,  however  nice  and 
whimsical  these  may  prove;  and,  if  everything  is  not  agreeable 
to  their  taste,  will  challenge  a  right  to  censure,  to  abuse,  and  to 
d — n  their  dinner  without  control. 

To  prevent,  therefore,  giving  offense  to  their  customers  by  any 
such  disappointment,  it  hath  been  usual,  with  the  honest  and 
well-meaning  host,  to  provide  a  bill  of  fare,  which  all  persons 
may  peruse  at  their  first  entrance  into  the  house;  and,  having 
thence  acquainted  themselves  with  the  entertainment  which 
they  may  expect,  may  either  stay  and  regale  with  what  is  pro- 
vided for  them,  or  may  depart  to  some  other  ordinary  better 
accommodated  to  their  taste. 


TOM  JONES  305 

As  we  do  not  disdain  to  borrow  wit  or  wisdom  from  any 
man  who  is  capable  of  lending  us  either,  we  have  condescended 
to  take  a  hint  from  these  honest  victualers,  and  shall  prefix  not 
only  a  general  bill  of  fare  to  our  whole  entertainment,  but 
shall  likewise  give  the  reader  particular  bills  to  every  course 
which  is  to  be  served  up  in  this  and  the  ensuing  volumes. 

The  provision,  then,  which  we  have  here  made  is  no  otl;er 
than  Human  Nature.  Nor  do  I  fear  that  my  sensible  reader, 
though  most  luxurious  in  his  taste,  will  start,  cavil,  or  be  of- 
fended, because  I  have  named  but  one  article.  The  tortoise,  as 
the  alderman  of  Bristol,  well  learned  in  eating,  knows  by  much 
experience,  besides  the  delicious  calibash  and  calipee,  contains 
many  different  kinds  of  food;  nor  can  the  learned  reader  be  ig- 
norant that  in  human  nature,  though  here  collected  under  one 
general  name,  is  such  prodigious  variety,  that  a  cook  will  have 
sooner  gone  through  all  the  several  species  of  animal  and  vege- 
table food  in  the  world,  than  an  author  will  be  able  to  exhaust 
so  extensive  a  subject. 

An  objection  may  perhaps  be  apprehended  from  the  more 
delicate,  that  this  dish  is  too  common  and  vulgar;  for  what  else 
is  the  subject  of  all  the  romances,  novels,  plays  and  poems, 
with  which  the  stalls  abound?  Many  exquisite  viands  might  be 
rejected  by  the  epicure,  if  it  was  a  sufficient  cause  for  his  con- 
temning of  them  as  common  and  vulgar,  that  something  was  to 
be  found  in  the  most  paltry  alleys  under  the  same  name.  In 
reality,  true  nature  is  as  difficult  to  be  met  with  in  authors,  as 
the  Bayonne  ham,  or  Bologna  sausage,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
shops. 

But  the  whole,  to  continue  the  same  metaphor,  consists  in 
the  cookery  of  the  author;  for,  as  Mr.  Pope  tells  us,  — 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed. 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed. 

The  same  animal  which  hath  the  honor  to  have  some  part  of  his 
flesh  eaten  at  the  table  of  a  duke,  may  perhaps  be  degraded  in 
another  part,  and  some  of  his  limbs  gibbeted,  as  it  were,  in  the 
vilest  stall  in  town.  Where,  then,  lies  the  difference  between  the 
food  of  the  nobleman  and  the  porter,  if  both  are  at  dinner  on  the 
same  ox  or  calf,  but  in  the  seasoning,  the  dressing,  the  garnish- 
ing, and  the  setting  forth?  Hence  the  one  provokes  and  incites 


3o6  HENRY  FIELDING 

the  most  languid  appetite,  and  the  other  turns  and  palls  that 
which  is  the  sharpest  and  keenest. 

In  like  manner,  the  excellence  of  the  mental  entertainment 
consists  less  in  the  subject  than  in  the  author's  skill  in  well 
dressing  it  up.  How  pleased,  therefore,  will  the  reader  be  to 
find  that  we  have,  in  the  following  work,  adhered  closely  to  one 
of  the  highest  principles  of  the  best  cook  which  the  present  age, 
or  perhaps  that  of  Heliogabalus,  hath  produced.  This  great 
man,  as  is  well  known  to  all  lovers  of  polite  eating,  begins  at 
first  by  setting  plain  things  before  his  hungry  guests,  rising 
afterwards  by  degrees,  as  their  stomachs  may  be  supposed  to 
decrease,  to  the  very  quintessence  of  sauce  and  spices.  In  like 
manner  we  shall  represent  human  nature  at  first  to  the  reader 
in  that  more  plain  and  simple  manner  in  which  it  is  found  in  the 
country,  and  shall  hereafter  hash  and  ragout  it  with  all  the  high 
French  and  Italian  seasoning  of  affectation  and  vice  which 
courts  and  cities  afford.  By  these  means,  we  doubt  not  but  our 
reader  may  be  rendered  desirous  to  read  on  forever,  as  the 
great  person  just  above  mentioned  is  supposed  to  have  made 
some  persons  eat. 


Reader,  it  is  impossible  we  should  know  what  sort  of  person 
thou  wilt  be:  for  perhaps  thou  mayst  be  as  learned  in  human 
nature  as  Shakespeare  himself  was,  and  perhaps  thou  mayst  be 
no  wiser  than  some  of  his  editors.  Now  lest  this  latter  should 
be  the  case,  we  think  proper,  before  we  go  any  farther  together, 
to  give  thee  a  few  wholesome  admonitions,  that  thou  mayst 
not  as  grossly  misunderstand  and  misrepresent  us,  as  some  of 
the  said  editors  have  misunderstood  and  misrepresented  their 
author. 

First,  then,  we  warn  thee  not  too  hastily  to  condemn  any  of 
the  incidents  in  this  our  history  as  impertinent  and  foreign  to 
our  main  design,  because  thou  dost  not  immediately  conceive 
in  what  manner  such  incident  may  conduce  to  that  design. 
This  work  may,  indeed,  be  considered  as  a  great  creation  of  our 
own ;  and  for  a  little  reptile  of  a  critic  to  presume  to  find  fault 
with  any  of  its  parts,  without  knowing  the  manner  in  which  the 
whole  is  connected,  and  before  he  comes  to  the  final  catastrophe, 


TOM  JONES  307 

is  a  most  presumptuous  absurdity.  The  allusion  and  metaphor 
we  have  here  made  use  of,  we  must  acknowledge  to  be  infinitely 
too  great  for  our  occasion,  but  there  is  indeed  no  other  which  is 
at  all  adequate  to  express  the  difference  between  an  author  of 
the  first  rate  and  a  critic  of  the  lowest. 

Another  caution  we  would  give  thee,  my  good  reptile,  is  that 
thou  dost  not  find  out  too  near  a  resemblance  between  certain 
characters  here  introduced;  as  for  instance,  between  the  land- 
lady who  appears  in  the  seventh  book,  and  her  in  the  ninth. 
Thou  art  to  know,  friend,  that  there  are  certain  characteristics 
in  which  most  individuals  of  every  profession  and  occupation 
agree.  To  be  able  to  preserve  these  characteristics,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  diversify  their  operations,  is  one  talent  of  a  good 
writer.  Again,  to  mark  the  nice  distinction  between  two  persons 
actuated  by  the  same  vice  or  folly  is  another;  and  as  this  last 
talent  is  found  in  very  few  writers,  so  is  the  true  discernment 
of  it  found  in  as  few  readers,  —  though  I  believe  the  observ- 
ation of  this  forms  a  very  principal  pleasure  in  those  who  are 
capable  of  the  discovery.  Every  person,  for  instance,  can  dis- 
tinguish between  Sir  Epicure  Mammon  and  Sir Fopling  Flutter;1 
but  to  note  the  difference  between  Sir  Fopling  Flutter  and  Sir 
Courtly  Nice2  requires  a  most  exquisite  judgment;  for  want  of 
which,  vulgar  spectators  of  plays  very  often  do  great  injustice  in 
the  theatre,  where  I  have  sometimes  known  a  poet  in  danger  of 
being  convicted  as  a  thief,  upon  much  worse  evidence  than  the 
resemblance  of  hands  hath  been  held  to  be  in  the  law.  In  reality, 
I  apprehend  every  amorous  widow  on  the  stage  would  run  the 
hazard  of  being  condemned  as  a  servile  imitation  of  Dido,  but 
that  happily  very  few  of  our  playhouse  critics  understand 
enough  of  Latin  to  read  Virgil. 

In  the  next  place,  we  must  admonish  thee,  my  worthy  friend 
(for  perhaps  thy  heart  may  be  better  than  thy  head),  not  to 
condemn  a  character  as  a  bad  one,  because  it  is  not  perfectly  a 
good  one.  If  thou  dost  delight  in  these  models  of  perfection, 
there  are  books  enow  written  to  gratify  thy  taste;  but  as  we 
have  not,  in  the  course  of  our  conversation,  ever  happened  to 
meet  with  any  such  person,  we  have  not  chosen  to  introduce 
any  such  here.  To  say  the  truth,  I  as  little  question  whether 

1  In  Jonson's  Alchemist  and  Etherege's  Man  of  Mode, 
*  In  Crowne's  Sir  Courtly  Nice. 


308  HENRY  FIELDING 

mere  man  ever  arrived  at  this  consummate  degree  of  excellence, 
as  well  as  whether  there  hath  ever  existed  a  monster  bad  enough 
to  verify  that 

—  nulla  mrtute  redempium 
viliis 1  — 

in  Juvenal.  Nor  do  I,  indeed,  conceive  the  good  purposes  served 
by  inserting  characters  of  such  angelic  perfection  or  such  dia- 
bolical depravity,  in  any  work  of  invention :  since  from  contem- 
plating either,  the  mind  of  man  is  more  likely  to  be  over- 
whelmed with  sorrow  and  shame,  than  to  draw  any  good  uses 
from  such  patterns.  For  in  the  former  instance  he  may  be  both 
concerned  and  ashamed  to  see  a  pattern  of  excellence,  in  his 
nature,  which  he  may  reasonably  despair  of  ever  arriving  at; 
and  in  contemplating  the  latter,  he  may  be  no  less  affected 
with  those  uneasy  sensations,  at  seeing  the  nature  of  which  he 
is  a  partaker  degraded  into  so  odious  and  detestable  a  creature. 
In  fact,  if  there  be  enough  of  goodness  in  a  character  to 
engage  the  admiration  and  affection  of  a  well-disposed  mind, 
though  there  should  appear  some  of  those  little  blemishes, 
quas  humana  parum  cavit  natural  they  will  raise  our  compassion 
rather  than  our  abhorrence.  Indeed  nothing  can  be  of  more 
moral  use  than  the  imperfections  which  are  seen  in  examples  of 
this  kind,  since  such  form  a  kind  of  surprise,  more  apt  to  affect 
and  dwell  upon  our  minds,  than  the  faults  of  very  vicious  and 
wicked  persons.  The  foibles  and  vices  of  men  in  whom  there  is 
great  mixture  of  good,  become  more  glaring  objects,  from  the 
virtues  which  contrast  them  and  show  their  deformity;  and 
when  we  find  such  vices  attended  with  their  evil  consequence 
to  our  favorite  characters,  we  are  not  only  taught  to  shun  them 
for  our  own  sake,  but  to  hate  them  for  the  mischiefs  they  have 
already  brought  on  those  we  love. 

AN   INVOCATION 

Come,  bright  love  of  fame,  inspire  my  glowing  breast:  not 
thee  I  call,  who,  over  swelling  tides  of  blood  and  tears,  dost  bear 
the  hero  on  to  glory,  while  sighs  of  millions  waft  his  spreading 
sails;  but  thee,  fair,  gentle  maid,  whom  Mnesis,3  happy  nymph, 
first  on  the  banks  of  Hebrus  didst  produce.  Thee  whom  Mas- 

1  "Redeemed  from  vice  by  not  a  single  virtue." 

*  "Which  human  nature  took  too  little  care  to  avoid." 

*  For  Mnemosyne,  mother  of  the  Muses. 


TOM  JONES  309 

onia1  educated,  whom  Mantua2  charmed,  and  who,  on  that  fair 
hill  which  overlooks  the  proud  metropolis  of  Britain,  sat,  with 
thy  Milton,  sweetly  tuning  the  heroic  lyre;  —  fill  my  ravished 
fancy  with  the  hopes  of  charming  ages  yet  to  come.  Foretell 
me  that  some  tender  maid,  whose  grandmother  is  yet  unborn, 
hereafter,  when,  under  the  fictitious  name  of  Sophia,  she  reads 
the  real  worth  which  once  existed  in  my  Charlotte,  shall  from 
her  sympathetic  breast  send  forth  the  heaving  sigh.  Do  thou 
teach  me  not  only  to  foresee,  but  to  enjoy,  —  nay,  even  to  feed 
on  future  praise.  Comfort  me  by  a  solemn  assurance  that, 
when  the  little  parlor  in  which  I  sit  at  this  instant  shall  be  re- 
duced to  a  worse  furnished  box,  I  shall  be  read  with  honor  by 
those  who  never  knew  nor  saw  me,  and  whom  I  shall  neither 
know  nor  see. 

And  thou,  much  plumper  dame,  whom  no  airy  forms  nor 
phantoms  of  imagination  clothe;  whom  the  well-seasoned  beef, 
and  pudding  richly  stained  with  plums,  delight;  —  thee  I  call! 
In  Grub  Street  school  didst  thou  suck  in  the  elements  of  thy 
erudition.  Here  hast  thou,  in  thy  maturer  age,  taught  poetry 
to  tickle  not  the  fancy,  but  the  pride  of  the  patron.  Comedy 
from  thee  learns  a  grave  and  solemn  air;  while  tragedy  storms 
loud,  and  rends  th'  affrighted  theatres  with  its  thunder.  To 
soothe  thy  wearied  limbs  in  slumber,  Alderman  History  tells 
his  tedious  tale;  and  again  to  awaken  thee,  Monsieur  Romance 
performs  his  surprising  tricks  of  dexterity.  Nor  less  thy  well- 
fed  bookseller  obeys  thy  influence.  By  thy  advice  the  heavy, 
unread  folio  lump,  which  long  had  dozed  on  the  dusty  shelf, 
piece-mealed  into  numbers,  runs  nimbly  through  the  nation. 
Instructed  by  thee,  some  books,  like  quacks,  impose  on  the 
world  by  promising  wonders,  while  others  turn  beaus,  and  trust 
all  their  merits  to  a  gilded  outside.  Come,  thou  jolly  substance, 
with  thy  shining  face,  keep  back  thy  inspiration,  but  hold  forth 
thy  tempting  rewards;  thy  shining,  chinking  heap;  thy  quickly 
convertible  bank-bill,  big  with  unseen  riches;  thy  of  ten- varying 
stock;  the  warm,  the  comfortable  house;  and  lastly,  a  fair  por- 
tion of  that  bounteous  mother  whose  flowing  breasts  yield  re- 
dundant sustenance  for  all  her  numerous  off  spring,  did  not  some 
too  greedily  and  wantonly  drive  their  brethren  from  the  teat. 
Come  thou;  and  if  I  am  too  tasteless  of  thy  valuable  treasures, 

1  Birthplace  of  Homer.  *  Birthplace  of  Virgil. 


3io  HENRY  FIELDING 

warm  my  heart  with  the  transporting  thought  of  conveying 
them  to  others.  Tell  me  that  through  thy  bounty  the  prattling 
babes  whose  innocent  play  hath  often  been  interrupted  by  my 
labors  may  one  time  be  amply  rewarded  for  them. 

And  now  this  ill-yoked  pair,  this  lean  shadow  and  this  fat 
substance,  have  prompted  me  to  write,  whose  assistance  shall 
I  invoke  to  direct  my  pen? 

First,  Genius,  thou  gift  of  heaven;  without  whose  aid  in  vain 
we  struggle  against  the  stream  of  nature.  Thou  who  dost  sow 
the  generous  seeds  which  art  nourishes  and  brings  to  perfection, 
do  thou  kindly  take  me  by  the  hand,  and  lead  me  through  all 
the  mazes,  the  winding  labyrinths  of  nature.  Initiate  me  into 
all  those  mysteries  which  profane  eyes  never  beheld.  Teach 
me  —  which  to  thee  is  no  difficult  task  —  to  know  mankind 
better  than  they  know  themselves.  Remove  that  mist  which 
dims  the  intellects  of  mortals,  and  causes  them  to  adore  men  for 
their  art,  or  to  detest  them  for  their  cunning  in  deceiving  others, 
when  they  are  in  reality  the  objects  only  of  ridicule  for  deceiv- 
ing themselves.  Strip  off  the  thin  disguise  of  wisdom  from  self- 
conceit,  of  plenty  from  avarice,  and  of  glory  from  ambition. 
Come  thou,  that  hast  inspired  thy  Aristophanes,  thy  Lucian, 
thy  Cervantes,  thy  Rabelais,  thy  Moliere,  thy  Shakespeare, 
thy  Swift,  thy  Marivaux,  —  fill  my  pages  with  humor,  till  man- 
kind learn  the  good-nature  to  laugh  only  at  the  follies  of  others, 
and  the  humility  to  grieve  at  their  own. 

And  thou,  almost  the  constant  attendant  on  true  genius, 
Humanity,  bring  all  thy  tender  sensations.  If  thou  hast  already 
disposed  of  them  all  between  thy  Allen  and  thy  Lyttelton,1  steal 
them  a  little  while  from  their  bosoms.  Not  without  these  the 
tender  scene  is  painted.  From  these  alone  proceed  the  noble, 
disinterested  friendship,  the  melting  love,  the  generous  senti- 
ment, the  ardent  gratitude,  the  soft  compassion,  the  candid 
opinion,  and  all  those  strong  energies  of  a  good  mind,  which 
fill  the  moistened  eyes  with  tears,  the  glowing  cheeks  with 
blood,  and  swell  the  heart  with  tides  of  grief,  joy,  and  benevo- 
lence. 

And  thou,  O  Learning  (for  without  thy  assistance  nothing 
pure,  nothing  correct,  can  genius  produce),  do  thou  guide  my 
pen.  Thee,  in  thy  favorite  fields,  where  the  limpid,  gently- 

1  Ralph  Allen  and  Lord  Lyttelton,  distinguished  for  their  benevolence. 


TOM  JONES  3n 

rolling  Thames  washes  thy  Etonian  banks,  in  early  youth  I 
have  worshiped.  To  thee,  at  thy  birchen  altar,  with  true  Spar- 
tan devotion,  I  have  sacrificed  my  blood.  Come,  then,  and 
from  thy  vast,  luxuriant  stores,  in  long  antiquity  piled  up,  pour 
forth  the  rich  profusion.  Open  thy  Masonian  and  thy  Mantuan 
coffers,  with  whatever  else  includes  thy  philosophic,  thy  poetic, 
and  thy  historical  treasures,  whether  with  Greek  or  Roman 
characters  thou  hast  chosen  to  inscribe  the  ponderous  chests; 
give  me  awhile  that  key  to  all  thy  treasures,  which  to  thy  War- 
burton1  thou  hast  entrusted. 

Lastly,  come  Experience,  long  conversant  with  the  wise,  the 
good,  the  learned,  and  the  polite.  Nor  with  them  only,  but  with 
every  kind  of  character,  from  the  minister  at  his  levee  to  the 
bailiff  in  his  sponging-house,  —  from  the  duchess  at  her  drum 
to  the  landlady  behind  her  bar.  From  thee  only  can  the  man- 
ners of  mankind  be  known,  to  which  the  recluse  pedant,  how- 
ever great  his  parts  or  extensive  his  learning  may  be,  hath  ever 
been  a  stranger. 

Come  all  these,  —  and  more,  if  possible;  for  arduous  is  the 
task  I  have  undertaken,  and  without  all  your  assistance  will,  I 
find,  be  too  heavy  for  me  to  support.  But  if  you  all  smile  on  my 
labors,  I  hope  still  to  bring  them  to  a  happy  conclusion. 

JONES   GOES   TO   A   PLAY  WITH  MRS.   MILLER  AND  PARTRIDGE 

...  As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Den- 
mark, began,  Partridge  was  all  attention,  nor  did  he  break 
silence  till  the  entrance  of  the  ghost;  upon  which  he  asked  Jones 
what  man  that  was  in  the  strange  dress;  "something,"  said  he, 
"like  what  I  have  seen  in  a  picture.  Sure  it  is  not  armor,  is 
it?"  Jones  answered,  "That  is  the  ghost."  To  which  Part- 
ridge replied  with  a  smile,  "Persuade  me  to  that,  sir,  if  you 
can.  Though  I  can't  say  I  ever  actually  saw  a  ghost  in  my  life, 
yet  I  am  certain  I  should  know  one  if  I  saw  him,  better  than 
that  comes  to.  No,  no,  sir,  ghosts  don't  appear  in  such  dresses 
as  that,  neither." 

In  this  mistake,  which  caused  much  laughter  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Partridge,  he  was  suffered  to  continue,  till  the  scene 
between  the  ghost  and  Hamlet,  when  Partridge  gave  that  credit 
to  Mr.  Garrick  which  he  had  denied  to  Jones,  and  fell  into  so 

1  Dr.  William  (later  Bishop)  Warburton,  a  learned  writer  on  theology  and  literature. 


312  HENRY  FIELDING 

violent  a  trembling  that  his  knees  knocked  against  each  other. 
Jones  asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  and  whether  he  was 
afraid  of  the  warrior  upon  the  stage?  "O  la!  sir,"  said  he,  "I 
perceive  now  it  is  what  you  told  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of  any- 
thing, for  I  know  it  is  but  a  play.  And  if  it  was  really  a  ghost,  it 
could  do  no  one  no  harm  at  such  a  distance,  and  in  so  much 
company;  and  yet  if  I  was  frightened,  I  am  not  the  only  per- 
son." 

"Why,  who,"  cries  Jones,  "dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a 
coward  here  besides  thyself?" 

"  Nay,  you  may  call  me  coward  if  you  will;  but  if  that  little 
man  there  upon  the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I  never  saw  any 
man  frightened  in  my  life.  Ay,  ay,  go  along  with  you,  —  ay,  to 
be  sure!  Who's  fool  then?  Will  you?  Lud  have  mercy  upon 
such  f oolhardiness !  Whatever  happens,  it  is  good  enough  for 
you.  —  Follow  you?  I  'd  follow  the  devil  as  soon.  Nay,  perhaps 
it  is  the  devil,  —  for  they  say  he  can  put  on  what  likeness  he 
pleases.  — Oh!  here  he  is  again.  No  farther!  No,  you  have 
gone  far  enough  already;  farther  than  I  'd  have  gone  for  all  the 
king's  dominions." 

Jones  offered  to  speak,  but  Partridge  cried,  "Hush!  hush! 
dear  sir,  don't  you  hear  him?  "  And  during  the  whole  speech  of 
the  ghost,  he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  partly  on  the  ghost  and 
partly  on  Hamlet,  and  with  his  mouth  open,  the  same  passions 
which  succeeded  each  other  in  Hamlet  succeeding  likewise  in 
him. 

When  the  scene  was  over  Jones  said,  "Why,  Partridge,  you 
exceed  my  expectations.  You  enjoy  the  play  more  than  I  con- 
ceived possible."  "Nay,  sir,"  answered  Partridge,  "if  you  are 
not  afraid  of  the  devil,  I  can't  help  it;  but  to  be  sure,  it  is 
natural  to  be  surprised  at  such  things,  though  I  know  there  is 
nothing  in  them.  Not  that  it  was  the  ghost  that  surprised  me, 
neither;  for  I  should  have  known  that  to  have  been  only  a  man 
in  a  strange  dress;  but  when  I  saw  the  little  man  so  frightened 
himself,  it  was  that  which  took  hold  of  me."  "And  dost  thou 
imagine,  then,  Partridge,"  cries  Jones,  "that  he  was  really 
frightened?"  "Nay,  sir,"  said  Partridge,  "did  not  you  your- 
self observe  afterwards,  when  he  found  it  was  his  own  father's 
spirit,  and  how  he  was  murdered  in  the  garden,  how  his  fear 
forsook  him  by  degrees,  and  he  was  struck  dumb  with  sorrow, 


TOM  JONES  313 

as  it  were,  just  as  I  should  have  been  had  it  been  my  own  case? 
-But  hush!  Ola!  what  noise  is  that?  There  he  is  again !  Well, 
to  be  certain,  though  I  know  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  it,  I 
am  glad  I  am  not  down  yonder,  where  those  men  are."  Then, 
turning  his  eyes  again  upon  Hamlet,  "Ay,  you  may  draw 
your  sword;  what  signifies  a  sword  against  the  power  of  the 
devil?" 

During  the  second  act  Partridge  made  very  few  remarks.  He 
greatly  admired  the  fineness  of  the  dresses,  nor  could  he  help 
observing  upon  the  king's  countenance.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  how 
people  may  be  deceived  by  faces!  Nulla  fides  fronli1  is,  I  find, 
a  true  saying.  Who  would  think,  by  looking  in  the  king's  face, 
that  he  had  ever  committed  a  murder?"  He  then  inquired 
after  the  ghost;  but  Jones,  who  intended  he  should  be  surprised, 
gave  him  no  other  satisfaction  than  that  he  might  possibly  see 
him  again  soon,  and  in  a  flash  of  fire. 

Partridge  sat  in  fearful  expectation  of  this;  and  now,  when 
the  ghost  made  his  next  appearance,  Partridge  cried  out, 
"  There,  sir,  now!  what  say  you  now?  Is  he  frightened  now,  or 
no?  As  much  frightened  as  you  think  me,  —  and  to  be  sure, 
nobody  can  help  some  fears.  I  would  not  be  in  so  bad  a  condi- 
tion as  what 's  his  name,  —  Squire  Hamlet,  —  is  there,  for  all 
the  world.  Bless  me!  what's  become  of  the  spirit?  As  I  am  a 
living  soul,  I  thought  I  saw  him  sink  into  the  earth."  "  Indeed, 
you  saw  right,"  answered  Jones.  "  Well,  well,"  cries  Partridge, 
"  I  know  it  is  only  a  play;  and  besides,  if  there  was  anything  in 
all  this,  Madam  Miller  would  not  laugh  so;  for  as  to  you,  sir, 
you  would  not  be  afraid,  I  believe,  if  the  devil  was  here  in  per- 
son. —  There,  there!  Ay,  no  wonder  you  are  in  such  a  passion! 
Shake  the  vile  wicked  wretch  to  pieces!  If  she  was  my  own 
mother,  I  should  serve  her  so.  To  be  sure  all  duty  to  a  mother  is 
forfeited  by  such  wicked  doings.  —  Ay,  go  about  your  business! 
I  hate  the  sight  of  you." 

Our  critic  was  now  pretty  silent  till  the  play  which  Hamlet 
introduces  before  the  king.  This  he  did  not  at  first  understand, 
till  Jones  explained  it  to  him,  but  he  no  sooner  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  it,  than  he  began  to  bless  himself  that  he  had  never 
committed  murder.  Then,  turning  to  Mrs.  Miller,  he  asked  her 
if  she  did  not  imagine  the  king  looked  as  if  he  was  touched; 

1  "Put  no  trust  in  the  outside." 


3i4  HENRY  FIELDING 

"  though  he  is,"  said  he,  "  a  good  actor,  and  doth  all  he  can  to 
hide  it.  Well,  I  would  not  have  so  much  to  answer  for  as  that 
wicked  man  there  hath,  to  sit  upon  a  much  higher  chair  than  he 
sits  upon.  No  wonder  he  ran  away;  for  your  sake  I'll  never 
trust  an  innocent  face  again." 

The  grave-digging  scene  next  engaged  the  attention  of  Part- 
ridge, who  expressed  much  surprise  at  the  number  of  skulls 
thrown  upon  the  stage.  To  which  Jones  answered  that  it  was 
one  of  the  most  famous  burial-places  about  town.  ' '  No  wonder, 
then,"  cries  Partridge,  "  that  the  place  is  haunted.  But  I  never 
saw  in  my  life  a  worse  grave-digger.  I  had  a  sexton,  when  I  was 
clerk,  that  should  have  dug  three  graves  while  he  is  digging  one. 
The  fellow  handles  a  spade  as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  had  one  in  his  hand.  Ay,  ay,  you  may  sing;  you  had  rather 
sing  than  work,  I  believe."  Upon  Hamlet's  taking  up  the  skull, 
he  cried  out,  "Well!  it  is  strange  to  see  how  fearless  some  men 
are.  I  never  could  bring  myself  to  touch  anything  belonging  to 
a  dead  man,  on  any  account.  He  seemed  frightened  enough, 
too,  at  the  ghost,  I  thought.  Nemo  omnibus  horis  sapit."1 

Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  during  the  play,  at 
the  end  of  which  Jones  asked  him  which  of  the  players  he  had 
liked  best.  To  this  he  answered,  with  some  appearance  of  in- 
dignation at  the  question,  "The  king,  without  doubt."  "In- 
deed, Mr.  Partridge,"  says  Mrs.  Miller,  "you  are  not  of  the 
same  opinion  with  the  town;  for  they  are  all  agreed  that  Ham- 
let is  acted  by  the  best  player  who  ever  was  on  the  stage."  "  He 
the  best  player!"  cries  Partridge,  with  a  contemptuous  sneer. 
"  Why,  I  could  act  as  well  as  he  myself.  I  am  sure  if  I  had  seen 
a  ghost  I  should  have  looked  in  the  very  same  manner,  and  done 
just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that  scene,  as  you  called 
it,  between  him  and  his  mother,  where  you  told  me  he  acted  so 
fine,  why,  Lord  help  me,  any  man  —  that  is,  any  good  man  — 
that  had  such  a  mother  would  have  done  exactly  the  same.  I 
know  you  are  only  joking  with  me;  but  indeed,  madam,  though 
I  was  never  at  a  play  in  London,  yet  I  have  seen  acting  before 
in  the  country;  and  the  king  for  my  money.  He  speaks  all  his 
words  distinctly,  half  as  loud  again  as  the  other.  Anybody  may 
see  he  is  an  actor."  .  .  . 

1  "No  one  is  wise  all  the  time." 


PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE,  FOURTH 
EARL  OF   CHESTERFIELD 

LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON,  PHILIP  STANHOPE 

[Lord  Chesterfield's  letters  to  his  natural  son  were  chiefly  written  be- 
tween 1739  and  1754.  They  were  published  in  1774,  the  year  following  his 
death,  by  the  son's  widow,  Mrs.  Eugenia  Stanhope,  who  sold  them  to  the 
publisher  for  £i  500.  They  attained  immediate  popularity,  and  were  often 
reprinted;  they  were  also  frequently  attacked  for  their  cynicism  and  world- 
liness.  (See  the  comment  of  Dr.  Johnson,  quoted  by  Boswell,  page  638, 
below.)] 

XLm 

October  9,  1747. 

.  .  .  PEOPLE  will,  in  a  great  degree,  and  not  without  reason, 
form  their  opinion  of  you  upon  that  which  they  have  of  your 
friends ;  and  there  is  a  Spanish  proverb  which  says  very  justly, 
"  Tell  me  whom  you  live  with,  and  I  will  tell  you  who  you  are." 
One  may  fairly  suppose  that  a  man  who  makes  a  knave  or  a 
fool  his  friend  has  something  very  bad  to  do  or  to  conceal.  But, 
at  the  same  time  that  you  carefully  decline  the  friendship  of 
knaves  and  fools,  if  it  can  be  called  friendship,  there  is  no  occa- 
sion to  make  either  of  them  your  enemies,  wantonly  and  un- 
provoked; for  they  are  numerous  bodies,  and  I  would  rather 
choose  a  secure  neutrality,  than  alliance,  or  war,  with  either  of 
them.  You  may  be  a  declared  enemy  to  their  vices  and  follies, 
without  being  marked  out  by  them  as  a  personal  one.  Their 
enmity  is  the  next  dangerous  thing  to  their  friendship.  Have  a 
real  reserve  with  almost  everybody,  and  have  a  seeming  reserve 
with  almost  nobody;  for  it  is  very  disagreeable  to  seem  reserved, 
and  very  dangerous  not  to  be  so.  Few  people  find  the  true  me- 
dium; many  are  ridiculously  mysterious  and  reserved  upon 
trifles,  and  many  imprudently  communicative  of  all  they  know. 

The  next  thing  to  the  choice  of  your  friends  is  the  choice  of 
your  company.  Endeavor,  as  much  as  you  can,  to  keep  com- 
pany with  people  above  you.  There  you  rise,  as  much  as  you 
sink  with  people  below  you ;  for  (as  I  have  mentioned  before) 
you  are  whatever  the  company  you  keep  is.  Do  not  mistake, 


316  LORD   CHESTERFIELD 

when  I  say  company  above  you,  and  think  that  I  mean  with 
regard  to  their  birth ;  that  is  the  least  consideration ;  but  I  mean 
with  regard  to  their  merit,  and  the  light  in  which  the  world  con- 
siders them. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  good  company :  one,  which  is  called  the 
"beau  monde,  and  consists  of  those  people  who  have  the  lead  in 
courts  and  in  the  gay  part  of  life;  the  other  consists  of  those 
who  are  distinguished  by  some  peculiar  merit,  or  who  excel  in 
some  particular  and  valuable  art  or  science.  For  my  own 
part,  I  used  to  think  myself  in  company  as  much  above  me, 
when  I  was  with  Mr.  Addison  and  Mr.  Pope,  as  if  I  had  been 
with  all  the  princes  in  Europe.  .  .  . 

You  may  possibly  ask  me  whether  a  man  has  it  always  in  his 
power  to  get  into  the  best  company?  and  how?  I  say,  Yes,  he 
has,  by  deserving  it;  provided  he  is  but  in  circumstances  which 
enable  him  to  appear  upon  the  footing  of  a  gentleman.  Merit 
and  good  breeding  will  make  their  way  everywhere.  Know- 
ledge will  introduce  him,  and  good  breeding  will  endear  him,  to 
the  best  companies;  for,  as  I  have  often  told  you,  politeness  and 
good  breeding  are  absolutely  necessary  to  adorn  any  or  all 
other  good  qualities  or  talents.  Without  them  no  knowledge, 
no  perfection  whatsoever,  is  seen  in  its  best  light.  The  scholar, 
without  good  breeding,  is  a  pedant;  the  philosopher  a  cynic;  the 
soldier  a  brute;  and  every  man  disagreeable.  .  .  . 

LVII 

February  22,  1748. 

.  .  .  Some  learned  men,  proud  of  their  knowledge,  only  speak 
to  decide,  and  give  judgment  without  appeal.  The  consequence 
of  which  is,  that  mankind,  provoked  by  the  insult  and  injured 
by  the  oppression,  revolt;  and,  in  order  to  shake  off  the  tyranny, 
even  call  the  lawful  authority  in  question.  The  more  you  know, 
the  modester  you  should  be;  and  (by  the  by)  that  modesty  is 
the  surest  way  of  gratifying  your  vanity.  Even  where  you  are 
sure,  seem  doubtful;  represent,  but  do  not  pronounce;  and,  if 
you  would  convince  others,  seem  open  to  conviction  yourself. 

Others,  to  show  their  learning,  or  often  from  the  prejudices 
of  a  school  education,  where  they  hear  nothing  else,  are  always 
talking  of  the  Ancients  as  something  more  than  men,  and  of  the 
Moderns  as  something  less.  They  are  never  without  a  classic  or 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON  317 

two  in  their  pockets;  they  stick  to  the  old  good  sense;  they  read 
none  of  the  modern  trash;  and  will  show  you  plainly  that  no 
improvement  has  been  made,  in  any  one  art  or  science,  these 
last  seventeen  hundred  years.  I  would  by  no  means  have  you 
disown  your  acquaintance  with  the  ancients,  but  still  less  would 
I  have  you  brag  of  an  exclusive  intimacy  with  them.  Speak  of 
the  moderns  without  contempt,  and  of  the  ancients  without 
idolatry;  judge  them  all  by  their  merits,  but  not  by  their  age; 
and,  if  you  happen  to  have  an  Elzevir  classic  in  your  pocket, 
neither  show  it  nor  mention  it. 

Some  great  scholars,  most  absurdly,  draw  all  their  maxims, 
both  for  public  and  private  life,  from  what  they  call  parallel 
cases  in  the  ancient  authors;,  without  considering  that,  in  the 
first  place,  there  never  were,  since  the  creation  of  the  world, 
two  cases  exactly  parallel,  and,  in  the  next  place,  that  there 
never  was  a  case  stated,  or  even  known,  by  any  historian,  with 
every  one  of  its  circumstances,  —  which,  however,  ought  to  be 
known  in  order  to  be  reasoned  from.  Reason  upon  the  case 
itself,  and  the  several  circumstances  that  attend  it,  and  act 
accordingly;  but  not  from  the  authority  of  ancient  poets  or  his- 
torians. Take  into  your  consideration,  if  you  please,  cases  seem- 
ingly analogous,  but  take  them  as  helps  only,  not  as  guides. 
We  are  really  so  prejudiced  by  our  educations,  that,  as  the  an- 
cients deified  their  heroes,  we  deify  their  madmen;  of  which, 
with  all  due  regard  to  antiquity,  I  take  Leonidas  and  Curtius  to 
have  been  two  distinguished  ones.  And  yet  a  solid  pedant 
would,  in  a  speech  in  Parliament  relative  to  a  tax  of  twopence  a 
pound  upon  some  commodity  or  other,  quote  those  two  heroes 
as  examples  of  what  we  ought  to  do  and  suffer  for  our  country. 
I  have  known  these  absurdities  carried  so  faf  by  people  of  inju- 
dicious learning,  that  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  some  of  them 
were  to  propose,  while  we  are  at  war  with  the  Gauls,  that  a 
number  of  geese  should  be  kept  in  the  Tower,  upon  account  of 
the  infinite  advantage  which  Rome  received,  in  a  parallel  case, 
from  a  certain  number  of  geese  in  the  Capitol.  This  way  of 
reasoning  and  this  way  of  speaking  will  always  form  a  poor 
politician  and  a  puerile  declaimer. 

There  is  another  species  of  learned  men  who,  though  less 
dogmatical  and  supercilious,  are  not  less  impertinent.  These 
are  the  communicative  and  shining  pedants,  who  adorn  their 


3i8  LORD   CHESTERFIELD 

conversation,  even  with  women,  by  happy  quotations  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  and  who  have  contracted  such  a  familiarity  with 
the  Greek  and  Roman  authors  that  they  call  them  by  certain 
names  or  epithets  denoting  intimacy.  As  "old  Homer,"  "that 
sly  rogue  Horace,"  "  Maro  "  instead  of  Virgil,  and  "Naso"  in- 
stead of  Ovid.  These  are  often  imitated  by  coxcombs,  who  have 
no  learning  at  all,  but  who  have  got  some  names  and  some 
scraps  of  ancient  authors  by  heart,  which  they  improperly 
and  impertinently  retail  in  all  companies,  in  hopes  of  passing 
for  scholars.  If,  therefore,  you  would  avoid  the  accusation  of 
pedantry  on  the  one  hand,  or  the  suspicion  of  ignorance  on  the 
other,  abstain  from  learned  ostentation.  Speak  the  language  of 
the  company  you  are  in ;  speak  it  purely,  and  unlarded  with  any 
other.  Never  seem  wiser  nor  more  learned  than  the  people  you 
are  with.  Wear  your  learning,  like  your  watch,  in  a  private 
pocket,  and  do  not  merely  pull  it  out  and  strike  it  merely  to 
show  you  have  one.  If  you  are  asked  what  o'clock  it  is,  tell  it; 
but  do  not  proclaim  it  hourly  and  unasked,  like  the  watchman. 
Upon  the  whole,  remember  that  learning  (I  mean  Greek  and 
Roman  learning)  is  a  most  useful  and  necessary  ornament, 
which  it  is  shameful  not  to  be  master  of;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
most  carefully  avoid  those  errors  and  abuses  which  I  have  men- 
tioned, and  which  too  often  attend  it.  Remember,  too,  that 
great  modern  knowledge  b  still  more  necessary  than  ancient, 
and  that  you  had  better  know  perfectly  the  present  than  the 
old  state  of  Europe;  though  I  would  have  you  well  acquainted 

with  both 

LXIV 

April  26,  1748. 

.  .  .  Were  most  historical  events  traced  up  to  their  true 
causes,  I  fear  we  should  not  find  them  much  more  noble  nor 
disinterested  than  Luther's  disappointed  avarice;  and  therefore 
I  look  with  some  contempt  upon  those  refining  and  sagacious 
historians  who  ascribe  all,  even  the  most  common  events,  to 
some  deep  political  cause ;  whereas  mankind  is  made  up  of  in- 
consistencies, and  no  man  acts  invariably  up  to  his  predomi- 
nant character.  The  wisest  man  sometimes  acts  weakly,  and 
the  weakest  sometimes  wisely.  Our  jarring  passions,  our  vari- 
able humors,  nay,  our  greater  or  lesser  degree  of  health  and 
spirits,  produce  such  contradictions  in  our  conduct  that,  I  be- 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON  319 

lieve,  those  are  the  oftenest  mistaken  who  ascribe  our  actions 
to  the  most  seemingly  obvious  motives.  And  I  am  convinced 
that  a  light  supper,  and  a  good  night's  sleep,  and  a  fine  morning, 
have  sometimes  made  a  hero  of  the  same  man  who,  by  an  in- 
digestion, a  restless  night,  and  a  rainy  morning,  would  have 
proved  a  coward. 

Our  best  conjectures,  therefore,  as  to  the  true  springs  of 
actions,  are  but  very  uncertain,  and  the  actions  themselves  are 
all  that  we  must  pretend  to  know  from  history.  That  Csesar 
was  murdered  by  twenty-three  conspirators,  I  make  no  doubt, 
but  I  very  much  doubt  that  their  love  of  liberty,  and  of  their 
country,  was  their  sole  or  even  principal  motive;  and  I  dare  say 
that,  if  the  truth  were  known,  we  should  find  that  many  other 
motives  at  least  concurred,  even  in  the  great  Brutus  himself,  — • 
such  as  pride,  envy,  personal  pique,  and  disappointment.  Nay, 
I  cannot  help  carrying  my  pyrrhonism  still  further,  and  ex- 
tending it  often  to  historical  facts  themselves,  at  least  to  most 
of  the  circumstances  with  which  they  are  related;  and  every 
day's  experience  confirms  me  in  this  historical  incredulity.  Do 
we  ever  hear  the  most  recent  fact  related  exactly  in  the  same 
way,  by  the  several  poeple  who  were  at  the  same  time  eye-wit- 
nesses of  it?  No.  One  mistakes,  another  misrepresents;  and 
others  warp  it  a  little  to  their  own  turn  of  mind,  or  private 
views.  A  man  who  has  been  concerned  in  a  transaction  will 
not  write  it  fairly,  and  a  man  who  has  not  cannot.  .  .  . 

LXXVI 

September  5,  1748. 

...  As  women  are  a  considerable,  or  at  least  a  pretty  nu- 
merous, part  of  company,  and  as  their  suffrages  go  a  great 
way  towards  establishing  a  man's  character  in  the  fashionable 
part  of  the  world  (which  is  of  great  importance  to  the  fortune  and 
figure  he  proposes  to  make  in  it) ,  it  is  necessary  to  please  them. 
I  will  therefore,  upon  this  subject,  let  you  into  certain  arcana, 
that  will  be  very  useful  for  you  to  know,  but  which  you  must 
with  the  utmost  care  conceal,  and  never  seem  to  know.  Women, 
then,  are  only  children  of  a  larger  growth;  they  have  an  enter- 
taining tattle  and  sometimes  wit,  but  for  solid,  reasoning  good 
sense,  I  never  in  my  life  knew  one  that  had  it,  or  acted  con- 
sequentially for  four-and-twenty  hours  together.  Some  little 


320  LORD   CHESTERFIELD 

passion  or  humor  always  breaks  in  upon  their  best  resolutions. 
Their  beauty  neglected  or  controverted,  their  age  increased,  or 
their  supposed  understandings  depreciated,  instantly  kindles 
their  little  passions,  and  overturns  any  system  of  consequential 
conduct  that  in  their  most  reasonable  moments  they  might 
have  been  capable  of  forming.  A  man  of  sense  only  trifles  with 
them,  plays  with  them,  humors  and  flatters  them,  as  he  does 
with  a  sprightly,  forward  child ;  but  he  neither  consults  them 
about,  nor  trusts  them  with,  serious  matters,  though  he  often 
makes  them  believe  that  he  does  both,  —  which  is  the  thing 
in  the  world  that  they  are  proud  of;  for  they  love  mightily  to 
be  dabbling  in  business  (which,  by  the  way,  they  always  spoil), 
and,  being  justly  distrustful  that  men  in  general  look  upon 
them  in  a  trifling  light,  they  almost  adore  that  man  who  talks 
more  seriously  to  them,  and  who  seems  to  consult  and  trust 
them ;  —  I  say,  who  seems,  for  weak  men  really  do,  but  wise  ones 
only  seem  to  do  it.  No  flattery  is  either  too  high  or  too  low 
for  them.  They  will  greedily  swallow  the  highest,  and  grate- 
fully accept  of  the  lowest;  and  you  may  safely  flatter  any 
woman,  from  her  understanding  down  to  the  exquisite  taste  of 
her  fan.  Women  who  are  either  indisputably  beautiful  or  in- 
disputably ugly  are  best  flattered  upon  the  score  of  their  under- 
standings ;  but  those  who  are  in  a  state  of  mediocrity  are  best 
flattered  upon  their  beauty,  or  at  least  their  graces;  for  every 
woman  who  is  not  absolutely  ugly  thinks  herself  handsome,  but, 
not  hearing  often  that  she  is  so,  is  the  more  grateful  and  the 
more  obliged  to  the  few  who  tell  her  so ;  whereas  a  decided  and 
conscious  beauty  looks  upon  every  tribute  paid  to  her  beauty 
only  as  her  due,  but  wants  to  shine  and  to  be  considered  on  the 
side  of  her  understanding;  and  a  woman  who  is  ugly  enough  to 
know  that  she  is  so,  knows  that  she  has  nothing  left  for  it  but 
her  understanding,  which  is  consequently  —  and  probably  in 
more  senses  than  one  —  her  weak  side. 

But  these  are  secrets  which  you  must  keep  inviolably,  if  you 
would  not,  like  Orpheus,  be  torn  to  pieces  by  the  whole  sex. 
On  the  contrary,  a  man  who  thinks  of  living  in  the  great  world 
must  be  gallant,  polite,  and  attentive  to  please  the  women. 
They  have,  from  the  weakness  of  men,  more  or  less  influence 
in  all  courts;  they  absolutely  stamp  every  man's  character  in 
the  beau  monde,  and  make  it  either  current,  or  cry  it  down  and 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON  321 

stop  it  in  payments.  It  is,  therefore,  absolutely  necessary  to 
manage,  please,  and  flatter  them,  and  never  to  discover  the 
least  marks  of  contempt,  which  is  what  they  never  forgive. 

These  are  some  of  the  hints  which  my  long  experience  in  the 
great  world  enables  me  to  give  you,  and  which,  if  you  attend 
to  them,  may  prove  useful  to  you  in  your  journey  through 
it.  ... 

LXXXI 

October  19,  1748. 

...  I  need  not,  I  believe,  advise  you  to  adapt  your  conver- 
sation to  the  people  you  are  conversing  with;  for  I  suppose  you 
would  not,  without  this  caution,  have  talked  upon  the  same 
subject  and  in  the  same  manner  to  a  minister  of  state,  a  bishop, 
a  philosopher,  a  captain,  and  a  woman.  A  man  of  the  world 
must,  like  the  chameleon,  be  able  to  take  every  different  hue, 
which  is  by  no  means  a  criminal  or  abject,  but  a  necessary, 
complaisance,  for  it  relates  only  to  manners,  and  not  to  morals. 

One  word  only  as  to  swearing,  and  that  I  hope  and  believe 
is  more  than  is  necessary.  You  may  sometimes  hear  some  peo- 
ple in  good  company  interlard  their  discourse  with  oaths,  by 
way  of  embellishment,  as  they  think;  but  you  must  observe, 
too,  that  those  who  do  so  are  never  those  who  contribute  in 
any  degree  to  give  that  company  the  denomination  of  good 
company.  They  are  always  subalterns,  or  people  of  low  educa- 
tion; for  that  practice,  besides  that  it  has  no  one  temptation  to 
plead,  is  as  silly  and  illiberal  as  it  is  wicked. 

Loud  laughter  is  the  mirth  of  the  mob,  who  are  only  pleased 
with  silly  things;  for  true  wit  or  good  sense  never  excited  a  laugh 
since  the  creation  of  the  world.  A  man  of  parts  and  fashion  is 
therefore  only  seen  to  smile,  but  never  heard  to  laugh.  .  .  . 

CXVH 

[1749-! 

.  .  .  Men  have  possibly  as  much  vanity  as  women,  though 
of  another  kind;  and  both  art  and  good  breeding  require  that, 
instead  of  mortifying,  you  should  please  and  flatter  it,  by  words 
and  looks  of  approbation.  Suppose  —  which  is  by  no  means 
improbable  —  that,  at  your  return  to  England,  I  should  place 
you  near  the  person  of  some  one  of  the  Royal  Family.  In  that 
situation  good  breeding,  engaging  address,  adorned  with  all  the 


322  LORD   CHESTERFIELD 

graces  that  dwell  at  courts,  would  very  probably  make  you  a 
favorite,  and,  from  a  favorite,  a  minister;  but  all  the  knowledge 
and  learning  in  the  world,  without  them,  never  would.  The 
penetration  of  princes  seldom  goes  deeper  than  the  surface.  It 
is  the  exterior  that  always  engages  their  hearts,  and  I  would 
never  advise  you  to  give  yourself  much  trouble  about  their 
understandings.  Princes  in  general  (I  mean  those  Porphyro- 
' genets  who  are  born  and  bred  in  purple)  are  about  the  pitch  of 
women,  bred  up  like  them,  and  are  to  be  addressed  and  gained 
in  the  same  manner.  They  always  see,  they  seldom  weigh.  Your 
lustre,  not  your  solidity,  must  take  them;  your  inside  will  after- 
wards support  and  secure  what  your  outside  has  acquired. 
With  weak  people  (and  they  undoubtedly  are  three  parts  in  four 
of  mankind),  good  breeding,  address,  and  manners  are  every- 
thing; they  can  go  no  deeper.  But  let  me  assure  you  that  they 
are  a  great  deal,  even  with  people  of  the  best  understandings. 

cxxrv 

December  19,  1749. 

...  I  have  often  told  you  (and  it  is  most  true)  that,  with 
regard  to  mankind,  we  must  not  draw  general  conclusions  from 
certain  particular  principles,  though,  in  the  main,  true  ones. 
We  must  not  suppose  that  because  man  is  a  rational  animal 
he  will  therefore  always  act  rationally;  or,  because  he  has  such 
or  such  a  predominant  passion,  that  he  will  act  invariably  and 
consequentially  in  the  pursuit  of  it.  No;  we  are  complicated 
machines;  and  though  we  have  one  main-spring  that  gives  mo- 
tion to  the  whole,  we  have  an  infinity  of  little  wheels  which,  in 
their  turns,  retard,  precipitate,  and  sometimes  stop  that  mo- 
tion. Let  us  exemplify:  I  will  suppose  ambition  to  be  —  as  it 
commonly  is  —  the  predominant  passion  of  a  minister  of  state, 
and  I  will  suppose  that  minister  an  able  one.  Will  he,  therefore, 
invariably  pursue  the  object  of  that  predominant  passion? 
May  I  be  sure  that  he  will  do  so  and  so,  because  he  ought? 
Nothing  less.  Sickness  or  low  spirits  may  damp  this  predomi- 
nant passion;  humor  and  peevishness  may  triumph  over  it; 
inferior  passions  may  at  times  surprise  it  and  prevail.  Is  this 
ambitious  statesman  amorous?  Indiscreet  and  unguarded  con- 
fidences, made  in  tender  moments,  to  his  wife  or  his  mistress, 
may  defeat  all  his  schemes.  Is  he  avaricious?  Some  great  lucra- 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON  323 

live  object  suddenly  presenting  itself  may  unravel  all  the  work 
of  his  ambition.  Is  he  passionate?  Contradiction  and  provoca- 
tion (sometimes,  it  may  be,  too,  artfully  intended)  may  extort 
rash  and  inconsiderate  expressions  or  actions,  destructive  of  his 
main  object.  Is  he  vain  and  open  to  flattery?  An  artful  flatter- 
ing favorite  may  mislead  him.  And  even  laziness  may,  at  cer- 
tain moments,  make  him  neglect  or  omit  the  necessary  steps  to 
that  height  which  he  wants  to  arrive  at.  Seek  first,  then,  for 
the  predominant  passion  of  the  character  which  you  mean  to 
engage  and  influence,  and  address  yourself  to  it,  but  without 
defying  or  despising  the  inferior  passions;  get  them  in  your 
interest  too,  for  now  and  then  they  will  have  their  turns.  In 
many  cases  you  may  not  have  it  in  your  power  to  contribute  to 
the  gratification  of  the  prevailing  passion;  then  take  the  next 
best  to  your  aid.  There  are  many  avenues  to  every  man,  and 
when  you  cannot  get  at  him  through  the  great  one,  try  the 
serpentine  ones,  and  you  will  arrive  at  last.  .  .  . 


THOMAS  GRAY 
LETTERS 

[Gray's  letters  were  chiefly  addressed  to  his  friends  Richard  West, 
Thomas  Wharton,  Horace  Walpole,  William  Mason,  and  Norton  Nich- 
ols. Some  were  published  (in  very  imperfect  form)  by  Mason  in  1775; 
others  in  1816,  1843,  etc.] 

TO   RICHARD   WEST 

May  27,  1742. 

MINE,  you  are  to  know,  is  a  white  melancholy,  or  rather 
ieucocholy  for  the  most  part,  which,  though  it  seldom  laughs  or 
dances,  nor  ever  amounts  to  what  one  calls  joy  or  pleasure,  yet 
is  a  good  easy  sort  of  state,  and  $a  ne  laisse  que  de  s'amuser. 
The  only  fault  is  its  insipidity,  which  is  apt  now  and  then  to 
give  a  sort  of  ennui,  which  makes  one  form  certain  little  wishes 
that  signify  nothing.  But  there  is  another  sort,  black  indeed, 
which  I  have  now  and  then  felt,  that  has  somewhat  in  it  like 
Tertullian's  rule  of  faith,  Credo  quia  impossibile  est;  for  it  be- 
lieves, nay,  is  sure  of  everything  that  is  unlikely,  so  it  be  but 
frightful ;  and  on  the  other  hand  excludes  and  shuts  its  eyes  to 
the  most  possible  hopes,  and  everything  that  is  pleasurable. 
From  this  the  Lord  deliver  us!  for  none  but  He  and  sunshiny 
weather  can  do  it.  In  hopes  of  enjoying  this  kind  of  weather,  I 
am  going  into  the  country  for  a  few  weeks,  but  shall  be  never 
the  nearer  any  society;  so,  if  you  have  an}'  charity,  you  will 
continue  to  write.  My  life  is  like  Harry  the  Fourth's  supper  of 
hens,  "  poulets  a  la  broche,  poulets  en  ragout,  poulets  en  hachis, 
poulets  en  fricassees."  Reading  here,  reading  there;  nothing 
but  books  with  different  sauces.  Do  not  let  me  lose  my  des- 
sert, then;  for  though  that  be  reading  too,  yet  it  has  a  very  dif- 
ferent flavor.  .  .  . 

TO  HORACE   WALPOLE 

Feb.  n,  1751. 

As  you  have  brought  me  into  a  little  sort  of  distress,  you 
must  assist  me,  I  believe,  to  get  out  of  it  as  well  as  I  can.  Yes- 
terday I  had  the  misfortune  of  receiving  a  letter  from  certain 


LETTERS  325 

gentlemen  (as  their  bookseller  expresses  it)  who  have  taken  the 
Magazine  of  Magazines  into  their  hands.  They  tell  me  that  an 
"ingenious"  poem,  called  "Reflections  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard," has  been  communicated  to  them,  which  they  are  printing 
forthwith;  that  they  are  informed  that  the  "excellent"  author 
of  it  is  I  by  name,  and  that  they  beg  not  only  his  "indulgence," 
but  the  "  honor"  of  his  correspondence,  etc.  As  I  am  not  at  all 
disposed  to  be  either  so  indulgent  or  so  correspondent  as  they 
desire,  I  have  but  one  bad  way  left  to  escape  the  honor  they 
would  inflict  upon  me;  and  therefore  am  obliged  to  desire  you 
would  make  Dodsley  print  it  immediately  (which  may  be  done 
in  less  than  a  week's  time)  from  your  copy,  but  without  my 
name,  in  what  form  is  most  convenient  for  him,  but  on  his  best 
paper  and  character.  He  must  correct  the  press  himself,  and 
print  it  without  any  interval  between  the  stanzas,  because  the 
sense  is  in  some  places  continued  beyond  them;  and  the  title 
must  be,  "Elegy,  written  in  a  Country  Church-yard."  If  he 
would  add  a  line  or  two  to  say  it  came  into  his  hands  by  acci- 
dent, I  should  like  it  better.  If  you  behold  the  Magazine  of 
Magazines  in  the  light  that  I  do,  you  will  not  refuse  to  give 
yourself  this  trouble  on  my  account,  which  you  have  taken  of 
your  own  accord  before  now.  If  Dodsley  do  not  do  this  im- 
mediately, he  may  as  well  let  it  alone. 

TO  HORACE   WALPOLE 

January,  1753. 

I  am  at  present  at  Stoke,  to  which  place  I  came  at  half  an 
hour's  warning  upon  the  news  I  received  of  my  mother's  illness, 
and  did  not  expect  to  have  found  her  alive;  but  when  I  arrived 
she  was  much  better,  and  continues  so.  I  shall  therefore  be 
very  glad  to  make  you  a  visit  at  Strawberry  Hill,  whenever 
you  give  me  notice  of  a  convenient  time.  I  am  surprised  at  the 
print,1  which  far  surpasses  my  idea  of  London  graving;  the 
drawing  itself  was  so  finished  that  I  suppose  it  did  not  require 
all  the  art  I  had  imagined  to  copy  it  tolerably.  My  aunts,  see- 
ing me  open  your  letter,  took  it  to  be  a  burying  ticket,  and 
asked  whether  anybody  had  left  me  a  ring;  and  so  they  still 
conceive  it  to  be,  even  with  all  their  spectacles  on.  Heaven 
forbid  they  should  suspect  it  to  belong  to  any  verses  of  mine,  - 

1  The  proof  of  a  print  designed  for  the  Elegy,  representing  a  funeral  scene. 


326  THOMAS   GRAY 

they  would  burn  me  for  a  poet.  .  .  .  This  I  know,  if  you 
suffer  my  head  to  be  printed,  you  will  infallibly  put  me  out 
of  mine.  I  conjure  you  immediately  to  put  a  stop  to  any 
such  design.  Who  is  at  the  expense  of  engraving  it,  I  know 
not;  but  if  it  be  Dodsley,  I  will  make  up  the  loss  to  him.  The 
thing  as  it  was,  I  know,  will  make  me  ridiculous  enough;  but 
to  appear  in  proper  person,  at  the  head  of  my  works,  consisting 
of  half  a  dozen  ballads  in  thirty  pages,  would  be  worse  than 
the  pillory.  I  do  assure  you,  if  I  had  received  such  a  book, 
with  such  a  frontispiece,  without  any  warning,  I  believe  it 
would  have  given  me  a  palsy.  Therefore  I  rejoice  to  have  re- 
ceived this  notice,  and  shall  not  be  easy  till  you  tell  me  all 
thoughts  of  it  are  laid  aside.  .  .  . 

TO   THOMAS   WHARTON 

Sept.  18,  1754. 

I  rejoice  to  find  you  at  last  settled  to  your  heart's  content, 
and  delight  to  hear  you  talk  of  giving  your  house  some  "  Gothic 
ornaments"  already.  If  you  project  anything,  I  hope  it  will  be 
entirely  within  doors;  and  don't  let  me  (when  I  come  gaping 
into  Coleman  Street)  be  directed  to  the  gentleman's  at  the  Ten 
Pinnacles,  or  with  the  church  porch  at  his  door.  I  am  glad  you 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  Strawberry  Castle.1  It  has  a  purity  and 
propriety  of  Gothicism  in  it  (with  very  few  exceptions)  that  I 
have  not  seen  elsewhere.  The  eating-room  and  library  were  not 
completed  when  I  was  there,  and  I  want  to  know  what  effect 
they  have.  My  Lord  Radnor's  vagaries,  I  see,  did  not  keep  you 
from  doing  justice  to  his  situation,  which  far  surpasses  every- 
thing near  it;  and  I  do  not  know  a  more  laughing  scene  than 
that  about  Twickenham  and  Richmond.  .  .  . 

TO   REV.   WILLIAM  MASON2 

Dec.  19,  1757. 

Though  I  very  well  know  the  bland,  emollient,  saponaceous 
qualities  of  both  sack  and  silver,  yet  if  any  great  man  would  say 
to  me,  "I  make  you  rat-catcher  to  his  Majesty,  with  a  salary  of 
£300  a  year  and  two  butts  of  the  best  Malaga;  and  though  it 
has  been  usual  to  catch  a  mouse  or  two,  for  form's  sake,  in  pub- 

1  Walpole's  country-seat.  See  his  letter,  page  469,  below. 

2  At  the  time  when  Gray's  name  had  been  mentioned  for  the  vacant  post  of  Poet 
Laureate. 


LETTERS 


327 


lie  once  a  year,  yet  to  you,  sir,  we  shall  not  stand  upon  these 
things,"  I  cannot  say  I  should  jump  at  it.  Nay,  if  they  would 
drop  the  very  name  of  the  office,  and  call  me  Sinecure  to  the 
King's  Majesty,  I  should  still  feel  a  little  awkward,  and  think 
everybody  I  saw  smelt  a  rat  about  me.  But  I  do  not  pretend  to 
blame  any  one  else  that  has  not  the  same  sensations;  for  my 
part  I  would  rather  be  sergeant  trumpeter  or  pinmaker  to  the 
palace.  Nevertheless  I  interest  myself  a  little  in  the  history  of 
it,  and  rather  wish  somebody  may  accept  it  that  will  retrieve 
the  credit  of  the  thing,  if  it  be  retrievable,  or  ever  had  any  credit. 
Rowe  was,  I  think,  the  last  man  of  character  that  had  it.  As  to 
Settle,  whom  you  mention,  he  belonged  to  my  Lord  Mayor,  not 
to  the  king.  Eusden  was  a  person  of  great  hopes  in  his  youth, 
though  at  last  he  turned  out  a  drunken  parson.  Dryden  was 
as  disgraceful  to  the  office,  from  his  character,  as  the  poorest 
scribbler  could  have  been  from  his  verses.  The  office  itself  has 
always  humbled  the  professor  hitherto  (even  in  an  age  when 
kings  were  somebody) ,  if  he  were  a  poor  writer  by  making  him 
more  conspicuous,  and  if  he  were  a  good  one  by  setting  him  at 
war  with  the  little  fry  of  his  own  profession,  —  for  there  are 
poets  little  enough  to  envy  even  a  poet  laureate.  .  .  . 

TO  RICHARD   STONEHEWER 

August  18,  1758. 

.  .  .  You  say  you  cannot  conceive  how  Lord  Shaftesbury 
came  to  be  a  philosopher  in  vogue.  I  will  tell  you.  First,  he  was 
a  lord;  2dly,  he  was  as  vain  as  any  of  his  readers;  3dly,  men 
are  very  prone  to  believe  what  they  do  not  understand ;  4thly, 
they  will  believe  anything  at  all,  provided  they  are  under  no 
obligation  to  believe  it;  sthly,  they  love  to  take  a  new  road, 
even  when  that  road  leads  nowhere;  6thly,  he  was  reckoned  a 
fine  writer,  and  seemed  always  to  mean  more  than  he  said. 
Would  you  have  any  more  reasons?  An  interval  of  above  forty 
years  has  pretty  well  destroyed  the  charm.  A  dead  lord  ranks 
but  with  commoners;  vanity  is  no  longer  interested  in  the  mat- 
ter, for  the  new  road  has  become  an  old  one.  The  mode  of  free- 
thinking  is  like  that  of  ruffs  and  farthingales,  and  has  given 
place  to  the  mode  of  not  thinking  at  all.  Once  it  was  reckoned 
graceful  half  to  discover  and  half  conceal  the  mind,  but  now 
we  have  been  long  accustomed  to  see  it  quite  naked;  primness 


328  THOMAS  GRAY 

and  affectation  of  style,  like  the  good  breeding  of  Queen  Anne's 
court,  has  turned  to  hoydening  and  rude  familiarity.  .  .  . 

TO  HORACE  WALPOLE 

[1760.] 

I  am  so  charmed  with  the  two  specimens  of  Erse  poetry,1 
that  I  cannot  help  giving  you  the  trouble  to  enquire  a  little 
farther  about  them,  and  should  wish  to  see  a  few  lines  of  the 
original,  that  I  may  form  some  slight  idea  of  the  language,  the 
measures,  and  the  rhythm. 

Is  there  anything  known  of  the  author  or  authors,  and  of 
what  antiquity  are  they  supposed  to  be?  Is  there  any  more  to 
be  had  of  equal  beauty,  or  at  all  approaching  to  it?  I  have  been 
often  told  that  the  poem  called  uHardicanute"2  (which  I  al- 
ways admired  and  still  admire)  was  the  work  of  somebody  that 
lived  a  few  years  ago.  This  I  do  not  at  all  believe,  though  it  has 
evidently  been  retouched  in  places  by  some  modern  hand.  But 
however,  I  am  authorized  by  this  report  to  ask  whether  the 
two  poems  in  question  are  certainly  antique  and  genuine.  I 
make  this  inquiry  in  quality  of  an  antiquary,  and  am  not  other- 
wise concerned  about  it;  for  if  I  were  sure  that  any  one  now 
living  in  Scotland  had  written  them,  to  divert  himself  and 
laugh  at  the  credulity  of  the  world,  I  would  undertake  a  journey 
into  the  Highlands  only  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him. 

TO  THOMAS   WHARTON 

[1760.] 

...  If  you  have  seen  Stonehewer  he  has  probably  told  you  of 
my  old  Scotch  (or  rather  Irish)  poetry.  I  am  gone  mad  about 
them.  They  are  said  to  be  translations  (literal  and  in  prose) 
from  the  Erse  tongue,  done  by  one  Macpherson,  a  young  cler- 
gyman in  the  Highlands.  He  means  to  publish  a  collection  he 
has  of  these  specimens  of  antiquity,  if  it  be  antiquity;  but  what 
plagues  me  is,  I  cannot  come  at  any  certainty  on  that  head.  I 
was  so  struck,  so  extasie  with  their  infinite  beauty,  that  I  writ 
into  Scotland  to  make  a  thousand  inquiries.  The  letters  I  have 
in  return  are  ill  wrote,  ill  reasoned,  unsatisfactory,  calculated 
(one  would  imagine)  to  deceive  one,  and  yet  not  cunning  enough 

1  Some  of  Macpherson's  Ossianic  papers,  still  unpublished. 

*  Made  public  by  Lady  Elizabeth  Wardlaw,  and  published  in   1719  as  an  ancient 
poem;  supposed  to  be  largely  her  own  work. 


LETTERS 


329 


to  do  it  cleverly.  In  short,  the  whole  external  evidence  would 
make  one  believe  these  fragments  (for  so  he  calls  them,  though 
nothing  can  be  more  entire)  counterfeit;  but  the  internal  is  so 
strong  on  the  other  side,  that  I  am  resolved  to  believe  them 
genuine,  spite  of  the  Devil  and  the  Kirk.  It  is  impossible  to  con- 
vince me  that  they  were  invented  by  the  same  man  that  writes 
me  these  letters.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  almost  as  hard  to 
suppose,  if  they  are  original,  that  he  should  be  able  to  translate 
them  so  admirably.  What  can  one  do?  Since  Stonehewer  went, 
I  have  received  another  of  a  very  different  and  inferior  kind 
(being  merely  descriptive),  —  much  more  modern  than  the 
former,  he  says,  yet  very  old  too;  this  too  in  its  way  is  ex- 
tremely fine.  In  short  this  man  is  the  very  Daemon  of  poetry, 
or  he  has  lighted  on  a  treasure  hid  for  ages.  .  .  . 

TO  HORACE   WALPOLE 

Feb.  25, 1768. 

To  your  friendly  accusation  I  am  glad  I  can  plead  not  guilty 
with  a  safe  conscience.  Dodsley  told  me  in  the  spring  that  the 
plates  from  Mr.  Bentley's  designs1  were  worn  out,  and  he 
wanted  to  have  them  copied  and  reduced  to  a  smaller  scale  for  a 
new  edition.  I  dissuaded  him  from  so  silly  an  expense,  and  de- 
sired he  would  put  in  no  ornaments  at  all.  The  "Long  Story" 
was  to  be  totally  omitted,  as  its  only  use  —  that  of  explaining 
the  prints  —  was  gone;  but  to  supply  the  place  of  it  in  bulk, 
lest  my  "works  "  should  be  mistaken  for  the  works  of  a  flea  or  a 
pismire,  I  promised  to  send  him  an  equal  weight  of  poetry  or 
prose.  So,  since  my  return  hither,  I  put  up  about  two  ounces  of 
stuff,  viz.  the  " Fatal  Sisters,"  the  "Descent  of  Odin  "  (of  both 
which  you  have  copies) ,  a  bit  of  something  from  the  Welsh,  and 
certain  little  notes,  partly  from  justice  —  to  acknowledge  the 
debt  where  I  had  borrowed  anything,  —  partly  from  ill  temper, 
just  to  tell  the  gentle  reader  that  Edward  I  was  not  Oliver 
Cromwell,  nor  Queen  Elizabeth  the  Witch  of  Endor.  This  is 
literally  all;  and  with  all  this,  I  shall  be  but  a  shrimp  of  an 
author.  I  gave  leave  also  to  print  the  same  thing  at  Glasgow, 
but  I  doubt  my  packet  has  miscarried,  for  I  hear  nothing  of  its 
arrival  as  yet.  To  what  you  say  to  me  so  civilly,  that  I  ought  to 

1  One  of  Gray's  volumes  (1753)  had  been  published  under  the  title  Designs  by  Mr.  R. 
Benttey  for  Six  Poems  by  Mr.  T.  Gray. 


330  THOMAS   GRAY 

write  more,  I  reply  in  your  own  words  (like  the  pamphleteer, 
who  is  going  to  confute  you  out  of  your  own  mouth),  What  has 
one  to  do,  when  "  turned  of  fifty,"  but  really  to  think  of  finish- 
ing? However,  I  will  be  candid,  for  you  seem  to  be  so  with  me, 
and  avow  to  you  that  till  fourscore-and-ten,  whenever  the  hu- 
mor takes  me,  I  will  write,  because  I  like  it;  and  because  I  like 
myself  much  better  when  I  do  so.  If  I  do  not  write  much,  it 
is  because  I  cannot.  .  .  . 

Mr.  BoswelPs  book1 1  was  going  to  recommend  to  you,  when 
I  received  your  letter;  it  has  pleased  and  moved  me  strangely, 
—  all,  I  mean,  that  relates  to  Paoli.  He  is  a  man  born  two 
thousand  years  after  his  time!  The  pamphlet  proves  what  I 
have  always  maintained,  that  any  fool  may  write  a  most  valu- 
able book  by  chance,  if  he  will  only  tell  us  what  he  heard  and 
saw  with  veracity.  Of  Mr.  BoswelPs  truth  I  have  not  the  least 
suspicion,  because  I  am  sure  he  could  invent  nothing  of  this 
kind.  The  true  title  of  this  part  of  his  work  is,  A  Dialogue  be- 
tween a  Green-Goose  and  a  Hero.  .  .  . 

1  An  Account  oj  Corsica  .  .  .  and  llemoirs  of  Pascal  Paoli. 


THOMAS  WARTON 

OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  FAIRY  QUEEN  OF  SPENSER 

1754 

[The  date  above  given  is  that  of  the  first  edition  of  the  Observations,  but 
the  extracts  are  reprinted  from  the  enlarged  edition  of  1762;  they  include 
portions  of  Sections  I  and  x,  and  of  the  Postscript.  This  book  was  the  first 
critical  work  dealing  with  an  English  author  to  follow  the  methods  char- 
acteristic of  modern  scholarship.  Its  appreciation  of  certain  aspects  of 
Spenser's  poetry  also  gives  it  an  important  place  in  the  history  of  the  so- 
called  "romantic  movement."] 

...  It  is  absurd  to  think  of  judging  either  Ariosto  or  Spenser 
by  precepts  which  they  did  not  attend  to.  We  who  live  in  the 
days  of  writing  by  rule,  are  apt  to  try  every  composition  by 
those  laws  which  we  have  been  taught  to  think  the  sole  crite- 
rion of  excellence.  Critical  taste  is  universally  diffused,  and  we 
require  the  same  order  and  design  which  every  modern  perform- 
ance is  expected  to  have,  in  poems  where  they  never  were 
regarded  or  intended.  Spenser,  and  the  same  may  be  said  of 
Ariosto,  did  not  live  in  an  age  of  planning.  His  poetry  is  the 
careless  exuberance  of  a  warm  imagination  and  a  strong  sen- 
sibility. It  was  his  business  to  engage  the  fancy,  and  to  interest 
the  attention,  by  bold  and  striking  images,  in  the  formation 
and  the  disposition  of  which  little  labor  or  art  was  applied. 
The  various  and  the  marvelous  were  the  chief  sources  of  delight. 
Hence  we  find  our  author  ransacking  alike  the  regions  of  reality 
and  romance,  of  truth  and  fiction,  to  find  the  proper  decora- 
tions and  furniture  for  his  fairy  structure.  Born  in  such  an  age, 
Spenser  wrote  rapidly  from  his  own  feelings,  which  at  the  same 
time  were  naturally  noble.  Exactness  in  his  poem  would  have 
been  like  the  cornice  which  a  painter  introduced  in  the  grotto 
of  Calypso.  Spenser's  beauties  are  like  the  flowers  in  Paradise, 

which  not  nice  art 

In  beds  and  curious  knots,  but  Nature  boon 
Pour'd  forth  profuse,  on  hill  and  dale  and  plain, 
Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly  smote 
The  open  field,  or  where  the  unpierc'd  shade 
Imbrown'd  the  noontide  bowers. 


332  THOMAS  WARTON 

If  the  Fairy  Queen  be  destitute  of  that  arrangement  and 
economy  which  epic  severity  requires,  yet  we  scarcely  regret 
the  loss  of  these  while  their  place  is  so  amply  supplied  by  some- 
thing which  more  powerfully  attracts  us;  something  which  en- 
gages the  affections,  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  rather  than  the 
cold  approbation  of  the  head.  If  there  be  any  poem  whose 
graces  please  because  they  are  situated  beyond  the  reach  of  art, 
and  where  the  force  and  faculties  of  creative  imagination  de- 
light, because  they  are  unassisted  and  unrestrained  by  those  of 
deliberate  judgment,  it  is  this.  In  reading  Spenser  if  the  critic 
is  not  satisfied,  yet  the  reader  is  transported.  .  .  . 

In  reading  the  works  of  a  poet  who  lived  in  a  remote  age,  it  is 
necessary  that  we  should  look  back  upon  the  customs  and  man- 
ners which  prevailed  in  that  age.  We  should  endeavor  to  place 
ourselves  in  the  writer's  situation  and  circumstances.  Hence  we 
shall  become  better  enabled  to  discover  how  his  turn  of  think- 
ing and  manner  of  composing  were  influenced  by  familiar  ap- 
pearances and  established  objects,  which  are  utterly  different 
from  those  with  which  we  are  at  present  surrounded.  For  want 
of  this  caution,  too  many  readers  view  the  knights  and  damsels, 
the  tournaments  and  enchantments,  of  Spenser  with  modern 
eyes,  never  considering  that  the  encounters  of  chivalry  sub- 
sisted in  our  author's  age;  that  romances  were  then  most  eag- 
erly and  universally  studied;  and  that  consequently  Spenser, 
from  the  fashion  of  the  times,  was  induced  to  undertake  a 
recital  of  chivalrous  achievements,  and  to  become,  in  short,  a 
romantic  poet. 

Spenser  in  this  respect  copied  real  manners  no  less  than 
Homer.  A  sensible  historian1  observes  that  "Homer  copied 
true  natural  manners,  which,  however  rough  and  uncultivated, 
will  always  form  an  agreeable  and  interesting  picture;  but  the 
pencil  of  the  English  poet  [Spenser]  was  employed  in  drawing 
the  affectations  and  conceits  and  fopperies  of  chivalry."  This, 
however,  was  nothing  more  than  an  imitation  of  real  life;  as 
much,  at  least,  as  the  plain  descriptions  in  Homer,  which  cor- 
responded to  the  simplicity  of  manners  then  subsisting  in 
Greece.  Spenser,  in  the  address  of  the  Shepherd's  Calendar  to 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  couples  his  patron's  learning  with  his  skill  in 

1  Hume. 


OBSERVATIONS   ON  THE  FAIRY  QUEEN    333 

chivalry,  a  topic  of  panegyric  which  would  sound  very  odd  in  a 
modern  dedication,  especially  before  a  set  of  pastorals.  "  To 
the  noble  and  virtuous  gentleman,  most  worthy  of  all  titles, 
both  of  Learning  and  Chivalry,  Master  Philip  Sidney,"  — 

Go,  little  book,  thyself  present, 
As  child  whose  parent  is  unkent. 
To  him  that  is  the  president 
Of  nobleness  and  chivalry, 

Nor  is  it  sufficiently  considered  that  a  popular  practice  of 
Spenser's  age  contributed,  in  a  considerable  degree,  to  make 
him  an  allegorical  poet.  We  should  remember  that  in  this  age 
allegory  was  applied  as  the  subject  and  foundation  of  public 
shows  and  spectacles,  which  were  exhibited  with  a  magnifi- 
cence superior  to  that  of  former  times.  The  virtues  and  vices, 
distinguished  by  their  respective  emblematical  types,  were  fre- 
quently personified,  and  represented  by  living  actors.  These 
figures  bore  a  chief  part  in  furnishing  what  they  called  pageants, 
which  were  then  the  principal  species  of  entertainment,  and 
were  shown  not  only  in  private,  or  upon  the  stage,  but  very 
often  in  the  open  streets  for  solemnizing  public  occasions,  or 
celebrating  any  grand  event.  As  a  proof  of  what  is  here  men- 
tioned, I  refer  the  reader  to  Holinshed's  Description  of  the 
Show  of  Manhood  and  Desert,  exhibited  at  Norwich  before  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  more  particularly  to  that  historian's  account  of 
a  tourney  performed  by  Fulke  Greville,  the  Lords  Arundel  and 
Windsor,  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  are  feigned  to  be  the  chil- 
dren of  Desire,  attempting  to  win  the  Fortress  of  Beauty.  In 
the  composition  of  the  last  spectacle  no  small  share  of  poetical 
invention  appears.  .  .  . 

After  the  Fairy  Queen,  allegory  began  to  decline,  and  by  de- 
grees gave  place  to  a  species  of  poetry  whose  images  were  of  the 
metaphysical  and  abstracted  kind.  This  fashion  evidently  took 
its  rise  from  the  predominant  studies  of  the  times,  in  which  the 
disquisitions  of  school  divinity,  and  the  perplexed  subtilties  of 
philosophic  disputation,  became  the  principal  pursuits  of  the 

learned. 

Then  Una  fair  gan  drop  her  princely  mien. 

James  I  is  contemptuously  called  a  pedantic  monarch.  But 
surely  nothing  could  be  more  serviceable  to  the  interests  of 


334  THOMAS  WARTON 

learning,  at  its  infancy,  than  this  supposed  foible.  "  To  stick  the 
doctor's  chair  into  the  throne  "  was  to  patronize  the  literature 
of  the  times.  In  a  more  enlightened  age,  the  same  attention  to 
letters  and  love  of  scholars  might  have  produced  proportionable 
effects  on  sciences  of  real  utility.  This  cast  of  mind  in  the  king, 
however  indulged  in  some  cases  to  an  ostentatious  affectation, 
was  at  least  innocent. 

Allegory,  notwithstanding,  unexpectedly  rekindled  some 
faint  sparks  of  its  native  splendor  in  the  Purple  Island  of 
Fletcher,  with  whom  it  almost  as  soon  disappeared;  when  a 
poetry  succeeded  in  which  imagination  gave  way  to  correctness, 
sublimity  of  description  to  delicacy  of  sentiment,  and  majestic 
imagery  to  conceit  and  epigram.  Poets  began  now  to  be  more 
attentive  to  words  than  to  things  and  objects.  The  nicer  beau- 
ties of  happy  expression  were  preferred  to  the  daring  strokes  of 
great  conception.  Satire,  that  bane  of  the  sublime,  was  im- 
ported from  France.  The  Muses  were  debauched  at  court,  and 
polite  life  and  familiar  manners  became  their  only  themes.  The 
simple  dignity  of  Milton  was  either  entirely  neglected,  or  mis- 
taken for  bombast  and  insipidity,  by  the  refined  readers  of  a 
dissolute  age,  whose  taste  and  morals  were  equally  vitiated.  . .  . 

.  .  .  Mechanical  critics  will  perhaps  be  disgusted  at  the  liber- 
ties I  have  taken  in  introducing  so  many  anecdotes  of  ancient 
chivalry.  But  my  subject  required  frequent  proofs  of  this  sort. 
Nor  could  I  be  persuaded  that  such  inquiries  were,  in  other 
respects,  either  useless  or  ridiculous,  as  they  tended  at  least  to 
illustrate  an  institution  of  no  frivolous  or  indifferent  nature. 
Chivalry  is  commonly  looked  upon  as  a  barbarous  sport  or  ex- 
travagant amusement  of  the  dark  ages.  It  had,  however,  no 
small  influence  on  the  manners,  policies,  and  constitutions  of 
ancient  times,  and  served  many  public  and  important  purposes. 
It  was  the  school  of  fortitude,  honor,  and  affability.  Its  exer- 
cises, like  the  Grecian  games,  habituated  the  youth  to  fatigue 
and  enterprise,  and  inspired  the  noblest  sentiments  of  heroism. 
It  taught  gallantry  and  civility  to  a  savage  and  ignorant  people, 
and  humanized  the  native  ferocity  of  the  northern  nations.  It 
conduced  to  refine  the  manners  of  the  combatants  by  exciting 
an  emulation  in  the  devices  and  accoutrements,  the  splendor 
and  parade,  of  their  tilts  and  tournaments;  while  its  magnifi- 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  FAIRY  QUEEN     335 

cent  festivals,   thronged  with  noble  dames  and  courteous 
knights,  produced  the  first  efforts  of  wit  and  fancy. 

I  am  still  further  to  hope  that,  together  with  other  specimens 
of  obsolete  literature  in  general,  hinted  at  before,  the  many 
references  I  have  made  in  particular  to  romances,  the  necessary 
appendage  of  ancient  chivalry,  will  also  plead  their  pardon.  For 
however  monstrous  and  unnatural  these  compositions  may 
appear  to  this  age  of  reason  and  refinement,  they  merit  more 
attention  than  the  world  is  willing  to  bestow.  They  preserve 
many  curious  historical  facts,  and  throw  considerable  light  on 
the  nature  of  the  feudal  system.  They  are  the  pictures  of  an- 
cient usages  and  customs,  and  represent  the  manners,  genius, 
and  character  of  our  ancestors.  Above  all,  such  are  their  terri- 
ble graces  of  magic  and  enchantment,  so  magnificently  mar- 
velous are  their  fictions  and  fablings,  that  they  contribute  in  a 
wonderful  degree  to  rouse  and  invigorate  all  the  powers  of  im- 
agination, to  store  the  fancy  with  those  sublime  and  alarming 
images  which  true  poetry  best  delights  to  display.  .  .  . 


JOSEPH  WARTON 

AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  GENIUS  AND  WRITINGS  OF  POPE 

1756,  1782 

[The  two  volumes  of  this  work  were  published  with  an  interval  of 
twenty-six  years  between  them;  but  the  opening  dedication  and  the  con- 
cluding summary,  here  reproduced,  show  the  same  attitude  toward  the 
nature  of  poetry,  —  anticipating  certain  elements  of  the  "romantic" 
position.] 

DEDICATION 

...  I  REVERE  the  memory  of  Pope,  I  respect  and  honor  his 
abilities;  but  I  do  not  think  him  at  the  head  of  his  profession. 
In  other  words,  in  that  species  of  poetry  wherein  Pope  excelled, 
he  is  superior  to  all  mankind ;  and  I  only  say  that  this  species  of 
poetry  is  not  the  most  excellent  one  of  the  art. 

We  do  not,  it  should  seem,  sufficiently  attend  to  the  differ- 
ence there  is  betwixt  a  man  of  wit,  a  man  of  sense,  and  a  true 
poet.  Donne  and  Swift  were  undoubtedly  men  of  wit,  and  men 
of  sense,  but  what  traces  have  they  left  of  pure  poetry?  It  is 
remarkable  that  Dryden  said  of  Donne,  "He  was  the  greatest 
wit,  though  not  the  greatest  poet,  of  this  nation."  Fontenelle 
and  La  Motte  are  entitled  to  the  former  character,  but  what 
can  they  urge  to  gain  the  latter  ?  Which  of  these  characters 
is  the  most  valuable  and  useful,  is  entirely  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  all  I  plead  for  is  to  have  their  several  provinces  kept  dis- 
tinct from  each  other,  and  to  impress  on  the  reader  that  a  cleat 
head  and  acute  understanding  are  not  sufficient,  alone,  to  make 
a  poet;  that  the  most  solid  observations  on  human  life,  expressed 
with  the  utmost  elegance  and  brevity,  are  morality,  and  not 
poetry;  that  the  Epistles  of  Boileau  in  rhyme  are  no  more  poeti- 
cal than  the  Characters  of  La  Bruyere  in  prose;  and  that  it  is  a 
creative  and  glowing  imagination,  acer  spiritus  ac  vis,  and  that 
alone,  that  can  stamp  a  writer  with  this  exalted  and  very  un- 
common character,  which  so  few  possess,  and  of  which  so  few 
can  properly  judge. 

For  one  person  who  can  adequately  relish  and  enjoy  a  work 


GENIUS  AND  WRITINGS  OF  POPE          337 

of  imagination,  twenty  are  to  be  found  who  can  taste  and  judge 
of  observations  on  familiar  life  and  the  manners  of  the  age.  The 
Satires  of  Ariosto  are  more  read  than  the  Orlando  Furioso,  or 
even  Dante.  Are  there  so  many  cordial  admirers  of  Spenser  and 
Milton  as  of  Hudibras,  if  we  strike  out  of  the  number  of  these 
supposed  admirers  those  who  appear  such  out  of  fashion,  and 
not  of  feeling?  Swift's  Rhapsody  on  Poetry  is  far  more  popular 
than  Akenside's  noble  Ode  to  Lord  Huntingdon.  The  Epistles  on 
the  Characters  of  Men  and  Women,  and  your  sprightly  Satires, 
my  good  friend,1  are  more  frequently  perused  and  quoted 
than  L'  Allegro  and  //  Penseroso  of  Milton.  Had  you  written 
only  these  satires,  you  would,  indeed,  have  gained  the  title  of  a 
man  of  wit,  and  a  man  of  sense,  but,  I  am  confident,  would  not 
insist  on  being  denominated  a  poet  merely  on  their  account. 
Non  satis  est  puris  versum  perscribere  verbis.* 

It  is  amazing  this  matter  should  ever  have  been  mistaken, 
when  Horace  has  taken  particular  and  repeated  pains  to  settle 
and  adjust  the  opinion  in  question.  He  has  more  than  once  dis- 
claimed all  right  and  title  to  the  name  of  poet  on  the  score  of  his 
ethic  and  satiric  pieces. 

—  Neque  enim  concludere  versum 
Dixerls  esse  satis  — 3 

are  lines  often  repeated,  but  whose  meaning  is  not  extended 
and  weighed  as  it  ought  to  be.  Nothing  can  be  more  judicious 
than  the  method  he  prescribes,  of  trying  whether  any  composi- 
tion be  essentially  poetical  or  not,  —  which  is,  to  drop  entirely 
the  measures  and  numbers,  and  transpose  and  invert  the  order 
of  the  words,  and  in  this  unadorned  manner  to  peruse  the  pas- 
sage. If  there  be  really  in  it  a  true  poetical  spirit,  all  your  in- 
versions and  transpositions  will  not  disguise  and  extinguish  it, 
but  it  will  retain  its  lustre,  like  a  diamond  unset  and  thrown 
back  into  the  rubbish  of  the  mine. 

Let  us  make  a  little  experiment  on  the  following  well-known 
lines:  "  Yes,  you  despise  the  man  that  is  confined  to  books,  who 
rails  at  human-kind  from  his  study,  though  what  he  learns,  he 
speaks,  and  may  perhaps  advance  some  general  maxims,  or  may 
be  right  by  chance.  The  coxcomb  bird,  so  grave  and  so  talka- 

1  Edward  Young. 

2  "It  does  not  suffice  to  write  verse  in  ordinary  language." 

•  "You  would  not  say  it  is  enough  merely  to  round  out  a  verse." 


338  JOSEPH  WARTON 

tive,  that  cries  Whore,  Knave,  and  Cuckold,  from  his  cage, 
though  he  rightly  call  many  a  passenger,  you  hold  him  no  phil- 
osopher. And  yet,  such  is  the  fate  of  all  extremes,  men  may  be 
read  too  much,  as  well  as  books.  We  grow  more  partial,  for  the 
sake  of  the  observer,  to  observations  which  we  ourselves  make; 
less  so  to  written  wisdom,  because  another's.  Maxims  are  drawn 
from  notions,  and  those  from  guess."1 

What  shall  we  say  of  this  passage?  Why,  that  it  is  most  ex- 
cellent sense,  but  just  as  poetical  as  the  Qui  fit  Mcecenasz  of  the 
author  who  recommends  this  method  of  trial.  Take  ten  lines  of 
the  Iliad,  Paradise  Lost,  or  even  of  the  Georgic  of  Virgil,  and  see 
whether,  by  any  process  of  critical  chemistry,  you  can  lower 
and  reduce  them  to  the  tameness  of  prose.  You  will  find  that 
they  will  appear  like  Ulysses  in  his  disguise  of  rags,  still  a  hero, 
though  lodged  in  the  cottage  of  the  herdsman  Eumaeus. 

The  sublime  and  the  pathetic  are  the  two  chief  nerves  of  all 
genuine  poetry.  What  is  there  transcendently  sublime  or  pa- 
thetic in  Pope?  In  his  works  there  is,  indeed,  nihil  inane,  nihil 
arcessitum;  puro  tamen  fonti  quam  magno  flumini  propior,3  as 
the  excellent  Quintilian  remarks  of  Lysias.  And  because  I  am, 
perhaps,  unwilling  to  speak  out  in  plain  English,  I  will  adopt  the 
following  passage  of  Voltaire,  which  in  my  opinion  as  exactly 
characterizes  Pope  as  it  does  his  model  Boileau,  for  whom  it  was 
originally  designed:  "Incapable  peut-etre  du  sublime  qui  eleve 
,1'ame,  et  du  sentiment  qui  1'attendrit,  mais  fait  pour  eclairer 
ceux  a  qui  la  nature  accorda  Tun  et  1'autre,  laborieux,  severe, 
precis,  pur,  harmonieux,  il  devint,  enfin,  le  poete  de  la  Raison." 

Our  English  poets  may,  I  think,  be  disposed  in  four  different 
classes  and  degrees.  In  the  first  class  I  would  place  our  only 
three  sublime  and  pathetic  poets:  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Mil- 
ton. In  the  second  class  should  be  ranked  such  as  possessed  the 
true  poetical  genius  in  a  more  moderate  degree,  but  who  had 
noble  talents  for  moral,  ethical,  and  panegyrical  poesy.  At  the 
head  of  these  are  Dryden,  Prior,  Addison,  Cowley,  Waller, 
Garth,  Fenton,  Gay,  Denham,  Parnell.  In  the  third  class  may 
be  placed  men  of  wit,  of  elegant  taste  and  lively  fancy  in  de- 
scribing familiar  life,  though  not  the  higher  scenes  of  poetry. 

1  A  paraphrase  of  the  opening  lines  of  Pope's  Epistle  I  (Moral  Essays). 
*  Horace's  first  satire. 

1  "Nothing  superfluous,  nothing  far-fetched;  yet  he  is  more  like  a  pure  spring  than  a 
great  river." 


GENIUS  AND   WRITINGS  OF  POPE          339 

Here  may  be  numbered  Butler,  Swift,  Rochester,  Donne, 
Dorset,  Oldham.  In  the  fourth  class,  the  mere  versifiers,  how- 
ever smooth  and  mellifluous  some  of  them  may  be  thought, 
should  be  disposed;  such  as  Pitt,  Sandys,  Fairfax,  Broome, 
Buckingham,  Lansdowne.  This  enumeration  is  not  intended 
as  a  complete  catalogue  of  writers,  and  in  their  proper  order, 
but  only  to  mark  out  briefly  the  different  species  of  our  cele- 
brated authors.  In  which  of  these  classes  Pope  deserves  to  be 
placed,  the  following  work  is  intended  to  determine. 

CONCLUSION 

Thus  have  I  endeavored  to  give  a  critical  account,  with  free- 
dom, but  it  is  hoped  with  impartiality,  of  each  of  Pope's  works; 
by  which  review  it  will  appear  that  the  largest  portion  of  them 
is  of  the  didactic,  moral,  and  satiric  kind,  and  consequently  not 
of  the  most  poetic  species  of  poetry.  Whence  it  is  manifest  that 
good  sense  and  judgment  were  his  characteristical  excellencies, 
rather  than  fancy  and  invention;  —  not  that  the  author  of  The 
Rape  of  the  Lock  and  Eloisa  can  be  thought  to  want  imagina- 
tion, but  because  his  imagination  was  not  his  predominant 
talent,  because  he  indulged  it  not,  and  because  he  gave  not  so 
many  proofs  of  this  talent  as  of  the  other.  This  turn  of  mind 
led  him  to  admire  French  models;  he  studied  Boileau  atten- 
tively, formed  himself  upon  him,  as  Milton  formed  himself  upon 
the  Grecian  and  Italian  sons  of  Fancy.  He  stuck  to  describing 
modern  manners;  but  those  manners,  because  they  are  familiar, 
uniform,  artificial,  and  polished,  are  in  their  very  nature  unfit 
for  any  lofty  effort  of  the  Muse.  He  gradually  became  one  of 
the  most  correct,  even,  and  exact  poets  that  ever  wrote,  polish- 
ing his  pieces  with  a  care  and  assiduity  that  no  business  or 
avocation  ever  interrupted;  so  that  if  he  does  not  frequently 
ravish  and  transport  his  reader,  yet  he  does  not  disgust  him 
with  unexpected  inequalities  and  absurd  improprieties.  What- 
ever poetical  enthusiasm  he  actually  possessed,  he  withheld  and 
stifled.  The  perusal  of  him  affects  not  our  minds  with  such 
strong  emotions  as  we  feel  from  Homer  and  Milton,  so  that  no 
man  of  a  true  poetical  spirit  is  master  of  himself  while  he  reads 
them.  Hence  he  is  a  writer  fit  for  universal  perusal,  adapted  to 
all  ages  and  stations,  for  the  old  and  for  the  young,  the  man  of 
business  and  the  scholar.  He  who  would  think  the  Fairy  Queen, 


340  JOSEPH  WARTON 

Palamon  and  Arcite,  The  Tempest,  or  Comus  childish  and  ro- 
mantic, might  relish  Pope.  Surely  it  is  no  narrow  and  niggardly 
encomium  to  say  he  is  the  great  Poet  of  Reason,  the  first  of 
ethical  authors  in  verse.  And  this  species  of  writing  is,  after  all, 
the  surest  road  to  an  extensive  reputation.  It  lies  more  level  to 
the  general  capacities  of  men  than  the  higher  flights  of  more 
genuine  poetry.  We  all  remember  when  even  a  Churchill  was 
more  in  vogue  than  a  Gray.  He  that  treats  of  fashionable 
follies,  and  the  topics  of  the  day,  that  describes  present  persons 
and  recent  events,  finds  many  readers,  whose  understandings 
and  whose  passions  he  gratifies.  The  name  of  Chesterfield  on 
one  hand,  and  of  Walpole  on  the  other,  failed  not  to  make  a 
poem  bought  up  and  talked  of.  And  it  cannot  be  doubted  that 
the  Odes  of  Horace  which  celebrated,  and  the  Satires  which 
ridiculed,  well-known  and  real  characters  at  Rome,  were  more 
eagerly  read,  and  more  frequently  cited,  than  the  ^Eneidand  the 
Georgics  of  Virgil. 

Where,  then,  according  to  the  question  proposed  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  Essay,  shall  we  with  justice  be  authorized  to 
place  our  admired  Pope?  Not,  assuredly,  in  the  same  rank  with 
Spenser,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton,  however  justly  we  may  ap- 
plaud the  Eloisa  and  Rape  of  the  Lock;  but,  considering  the  cor- 
rectness, elegance,  and  utility  of  his  works,  the  weight  of  senti- 
ment and  the  knowledge  of  man  they  contain,  we  may  venture 
to  assign  him  a  place  next  to  Milton,  and  just  above  Dryden. 
Yet,  to  bring  our  minds  steadily  to  make  this  decision,  we  must 
forget,  for  a  moment,  the  divine  Music  Ode  of  Dryden,  and  may, 
perhaps,  then  be  compelled  to  confess  that,  though  Dryden  be 
the  greater  genius,  yet  Pope  is  the  better  artist. 

The  preference  here  given  to  Pope  above  other  modern  Eng- 
lish poets,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  founded  on  the  excellen- 
cies of  his  works  in  general,  and  taken  all  together ;  for  there  are 
parts  and  passages  in  other  modern  authors,  —  in  Young  and 
in  Thomson,  for  instance,  —  equal  to  any  of  Pope,  and  he  has 
written  nothing  in  a  strain  so  truly  sublime  as  The  Bard  of  Gray. 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON 
THE   RAMBLER 

[This  periodical  was  published  twice  a  week,  from  March,  1750, 
io  March,  1752;  Johnson  himself  writing  all  but  five  papers.  See 
BoswelPs  account  of  its  origin  and  character,  page  630,  below.  In 
periodical  form  the  Rambler  papers  did  not  circulate  largely,  but  when 
collected  they  ran  into  more  than  ten  editions  during  Johnson's  life- 
time.] 

No.  102.   SATURDAY,  MARCH  9,  1751 

Ipsa  qiwque  assiduo  labuntur  tempora  motu, 

Non  secus  acflumen:  neqtie  enim  consistere  flumen, 

Nee  levis  horn  potest;  sed  ut  undo,  impellilur  undd, 

Urgdurque  prior  venicnte,  urgetque  priorem, 

Tempora  sic  fugiunt  pariter,  pariterque  sequuntur.  — OVID. 

With  constant  motion  as  the  moments  glide, 

Behold  in  running  life  the  rolling  tide! 

For  none  can  stem  by  art,  or  stop  by  pow'r, 

The  flowing  ocean,  or  the  fleeting  hour: 

But  wave  by  wave  pursued  arrives  on  shore, 

And  each  impell'd  behind  impels  before: 

So  time  on  time  revolving  we  descry; 

So  minutes  follow,  and  so  minutes  fly.  —  ELPHINSTON. 

"LIFE,"  says  Seneca,  "is  a  voyage,  in  the  progress  of  which 
we  are  perpetually  changing  our  scenes;  we  first  leave  child- 
hood behind  us,  then  youth,  then  the  years  of  ripened  manhood, 
then  the  better  and  more  pleasing  part  of  old  age."  The  perusal 
of  this  passage  having  incited  in  me  a  train  of  reflections  on  the 
state  of  man,  —  the  incessant  fluctuation  of  his  wishes,  the  grad- 
ual change  of  his  disposition  to  all  external  objects,  and  the 
thoughtlessness  with  which  he  floats  along  the  stream  of  time, 
I  sunk  into  a  slumber  amidst  my  meditations,  and  on  a  sud- 
den found  my  ears  filled  with  the  tumult  of  labor,  the  shouts  of 
alacrity,  the  shrieks  of  alarm,  the  whistle  of  winds,  and  the  dash 
of  waters. 

My  astonishment  for  a  time  repressed  my  curiosity;  but 
soon  recovering  myself  so  far  as  to  inquire  whither  we  were 


342  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

going,  and  what  was  the  cause  of  such  clamor  and  confusion,  I 
was  told  that  we  were  launching  out  into  the  "  ocean  of  life"; 
that  we  had  already  passed  the  straits  of  infancy,  in  which  mul- 
titudes had  perished,  some  by  the  weakness  and  fragility  of  their 
vessels,  and  more  by  the  folly,  perverseness,  or  negligence  of 
those  who  undertook  to  steer  them;  and  that  we  were  now  on 
the  main  sea,  abandoned  to  the  winds  and  billows,  without  any 
other  means  of  security  than  the  care  of  the  pilot,  whom  it  was 
always  in  our  power  to  choose  among  great  numbers  that  offered 
their  direction  and  assistance. 

I  then  looked  round  with  anxious  eagerness ;  and,  first  turning 
my  eyes  behind  me,  saw  a  stream  flowing  through  flowery  is- 
lands, which  every  one  that  sailed  along  seemed  to  behold  with 
pleasure,  but  no  sooner  touched  than  the  current  —  which, 
though  not  noisy  or  turbulent,  was  yet  irresistible  —  bore  him 
away.  Beyond  these  islands  all  was  darkness,  nor  could  any  of 
the  passengers  describe  the  shore  at  which  he  first  embarked. 

Before  me,  and  on  each  side,  was  an  expanse  of  waters  vio- 
lently agitated,  and  covered  with  so  thick  a  mist  that  the  most 
perspicacious  eye  could  see  but  a  little  way.  It  appeared  to  be 
full  of  rocks  and  whirlpools,  for  many  sunk  unexpectedly  while 
they  were  courting  the  gale  with  full  sails,  and  insulting  those 
whom  they  had  left  behind.  So  numerous,  indeed,  were  the 
dangers,  and  so  thick  the  darkness,  that  no  caution  could  confer 
security.  Yet  there  were  many  who,  by  false  intelligence,  be- 
trayed their  followers  into  whirlpools,  or  by  violence  pushed 
those  whom  they  found  in  their  way  against  the  rocks. 

The  current  was  invariable  and  insurmountable ;  but  though 
it  was  impossible  to  sail  against  it,  or  to  return  to  the  place  that 
was  once  passed,  yet  it  was  not  so  violent  as  to  allow  no  oppor- 
tunities for  dexterity  or  courage,  since,  though  none  could  re- 
treat back  from  danger,  yet  they  might  often  avoid  it  by  oblique 
direction. 

It  was,  however,  not  very  common  to  steer  with  much  care  or 
prudence;  for,  by  some  universal  infatuation,  every  man  ap- 
peared to  think  himself  safe,  though  he  saw  his  consorts  every 
moment  sinking  round  him ;  and  no  sooner  had  the  waves  closed 
over  them,  than  their  fate  and  their  misconduct  were  forgotten. 
The  voyage  was  pursued  with  the  same  jocund  confidence; 
every  man  congratulated  himself  upon  the  soundness  of  his 


THE  RAMBLER  343 

vessel,  and  believed  himself  able  to  stem  the  whirlpool  in  which 
his  friend  was  swallowed,  or  glide  over  the  rocks  on  which  he 
was  dashed;  nor  was  it  often  observed  that  the  sight  of  a  wreck 
made  any  man  change  his  course:  if  he  turned  aside  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  soon  forgot  the  rudder,  and  left  himself  again  to  the 
disposal  of  chance. 

This  negligence  did  not  proceed  from  indifference,  or  from 
weariness  of  their  present  condition;  for  not  one  of  those  who 
thus  rushed  upon  destruction,  failed,  when  he  was  sinking,  to 
call  loudly  upon  his  associates  for  that  help  which  could  not 
now  be  given  him;  and  many  spent  their  last  moments  in  cau- 
tioning others  against  the  folly  by  which  they  were  intercepted 
in  the  midst  of  their  course.  Their  benevolence  was  sometimes 
praised,  but  their  admonitions  were  unregarded. 

The  vessels  in  which  we  had  embarked,  being  confessedly 
unequal  to  the  turbulence  of  the  stream  of  life,  were  visibly 
impaired  in  the  course  of  the  voyage;  so  that  every  passenger 
was  certain  that,  how  long  soever  he  might,  by  favorable  acci- 
dents or  by  incessant  vigilance,  be  preserved,  he  must  sink  at 
last. 

This  necessity  of  perishing  might  have  been  expected  to  sad- 
den the  gay,  and  intimidate  the  daring,  at  least  to  keep  the 
melancholy  and  timorous  in  perpetual  torments,  and  hinder 
them  from  any  enjoyment  of  the  varieties  and  gratifications 
which  nature  offered  them  as  the  solace  of  their  labors ;  yet,  in 
effect,  none  seemed  less  to  expect  destruction  than  those  to 
whom  it  was  most  dreadful.  They  all  had  the  art  of  concealing 
their  danger  from  themselves;  and  those  who  knew  their  inabil- 
ity to  bear  the  sight  of  the  terrors  that  embarrassed  their  way, 
took  care  never  to  look  forward,  but  found  some  amusement 
for  the  present  moment,  and  generally  entertained  themselves 
by  playing  with  HOPE,  who  was  the  constant  associate  of  the 
voyage  of  life. 

Yet  all  that  HOPE  ventured  to  promise,  even  to  those  whom 
she  favored  most,  was,  not  that  they  should  escape,  but  that 
they  should  sink  last;  and  with  this  promise  every  one  was  satis- 
fied, though  he  laughed  at  the  rest  for  seeming  to  believe  it. 
HOPE,  indeed,  apparently  mocked  the  credulity  of  her  compan- 
ions; for,  in  proportion  as  their  vessels  grew  leaky,  she  redoubled 
her  assurances  of  safety;  and  none  were  more  busy  in  making 


,544  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

provisions  for  a  long  voyage,  than  they  whom  all  but  themselves 
saw  likely  to  perish  soon  by  irreparable  decay. 

In  the  midst  of  the  current  of  life  was  the  Gulf  of  INTEMPER- 
ANCE, a  dreadful  whirlpool,  interspersed  with  rocks,  of  which 
the  pointed  crags  were  concealed  under  water,  and  the  tops 
covered  with  herbage,  on  which  EASE  spread  couches  of  repose, 
and  with  shades  where  PLEASURE  warbled  the  song  of  invita- 
tion. Within  sight  of  these  rocks  all  who  sailed  on  the  ocean  of 
life  must  necessarily  pass.  REASON,  indeed,  was  always  at 
hand  to  steer  the  passengers  through  a  narrow  outlet  by  which 
they  might  escape;  but  very  few  could,  by  her  entreaties  or  re- 
monstrances, be  induced  to  put  the  rudder  into  her  hand,  with- 
out stipulating  that  she  should  approach  so  near  unto  the  rocks 
of  PLEASURE  that  they  might  solace  themselves  with  a  short 
enjoyment  of  that  delicious  region,  after  which  they  always 
determined  to  pursue  their  course  without  any  other  deviation. 

REASON  was  too  often  prevailed  upon  so  far  by  these  pro- 
mises, as  to  venture  her  charge  within  the  eddy  of  the  Gulf  of 
INTEMPERANCE,  where,  indeed,  the  circumvolution  was  weak, 
but  yet  interrupted  the  course  of  the  vessel,  and  drew  it,  by  in- 
sensible rotations,  towards  the  centre.  She  then  repented  her 
temerity,  and  with  all  her  force  endeavored  to  retreat;  but  the 
draught  of  the  gulf  was  generally  too  strong  to  be  overcome, 
and  the  passenger,  having  danced  in  circles  with  a  pleasing  and 
giddy  velocity,  was  at  last  overwhelmed  and  lost.  Those  few 
whom  REASON  was  able  to  extricate  generally  suffered  so  many 
shocks  upon  the  points  which  shot  out  from  the  rocks  of  PLEAS- 
URE, that  they  were  unable  to  continue  their  course  with  the 
same  strength  and  facility  as  before,  but  floated  along  timorously 
and  feebly,  endangered  by  every  breeze,  and  shattered  by  every 
ruffle  of  the  water,  till  they  sunk,  by  slow  degrees,  after  long 
struggles  and  innumerable  expedients,  always  repining  at  their 
own  folly,  and  warning  others  against  the  first  approach  of  the 
Gulf  of  INTEMPERANCE. 

There  were  artists  who  professed  to  repair  the  breaches  and 
stop  the  leaks  of  the  vessels  which  had  been  shattered  on  the 
rocks  of  PLEASURE.  Many  appeared  to  have  great  confidence  in 
their  skill,  and  some,  indeed,  were  preserved  by  it  from  sinking, 
who  had  received  only  a  single  blow ;  but  I  remarked  that  few 
vessels  lasted  long  which  had  been  much  repaired,  nor  was  it 


THE  RAMBLER  345 

found  that  the  artists  themselves  continued  afloat  longer  than 
those  who  had  least  of  their  assistance. 

The  only  advantage  which,  in  the  voyage  of  life,  the  cautious 
had  above  the  negligent,  was,  that  they  sunk  later,  and  more 
suddenly;  for  they  passed  forward  till  they  had  sometimes  seen 
all  those  in  whose  company  they  had  issued  from  the  straits  of 
infancy,  perish  in  the  way,  and  at  last  were  overset  by  a  cross 
breeze,  without  the  toil  of  resistance  or  the  anguish  of  expecta- 
tion. But  such  as  had  often  fallen  against  the  rocks  of  PLEASURE 
commonly  subsided  by  sensible  degrees,  contended  long  with 
the  encroaching  waters,  and  harassed  themselves  by  labors  that 
scarce  HOPE  herself  could  flatter  with  success. 

As  I  was  looking  upon  the  various  fate  of  the  multitude 
about  me,  I  was  suddenly  alarmed  with  an  admonition  from 
some  unknown  Power,  "  Gaze  not  idly  upon  others  when  thou 
thyself  art  sinking!  Whence  is  this  thoughtless  tranquillity, 
when  thou  and  they  are  equally  endangered?"  I  looked, 
and,  seeing  the  Gulf  of  INTEMPERANCE  before  me,  started  and 
awaked. 

No.  117.  TUESDAY,  APRIL  30,  1751 

*Q<fffa.v  lw'  OvX^fiirtj}  fj.Tj/j.a.(ra.i>  d^fuv  avrap  iir  'Offffjj 
H-fl\iov  dvoffi<t>v\\ov,  iv  ovpavits  awards  tfij.  —  HOMER. 


The  gods  they  challenge,  and  affect  the  skies: 

Heav'd  on  Olympus  tott'ring  Ossa  stood; 

On  Ossa,  Pelion  nods  with  all  his  wood.  —  POPE. 

To  THE  RAMBLER.    SIR: 

Nothing  has  more  retarded  the  advancement  of  learning  than 
the  disposition  of  vulgar  minds  to  ridicule  and  vilify  what  they 
cannot  comprehend.  All  industry  must  be  excited  by  hope; 
and  as  the  student  often  proposes  no  other  reward  to  himself 
than  praise,  he  is  easily  discouraged  by  contempt  and  insult. 
He  who  brings  with  him  into  a  clamorous  multitude  the  tim- 
idity of  recluse  speculation,  and  has  never  hardened  his  front  in 
public  life,  or  accustomed  his  passions  to  the  vicissitudes  and 
accidents,  the  triumphs  and  defeats  of  mixed  conversation,  will 
blush  at  the  stare  of  petulant  incredulity,  and  suffer  himself 
to  be  driven  by  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  fortresses  of  demon- 
stration. The  mechanist  will  be  afraid  to  assert,  before  hardy 
contradiction,  the  possibility  of  tearing  down  bulwarks  with 


346  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

a  silk-worm's  thread;  and  the  astronomer  of  relating  the  rapid- 
ity of  light,  the  distance  of  the  fixed  stars,  and  the  height  of  the 
lunar  mountains. 

If  I  could  by  any  efforts  have  shaken  off  this  cowardice,  I  had 
not  sheltered  myself  under  a  borrowed  name,  nor  applied  to 
you  for  the  means  of  communicating  to  the  public  the  theory 
of  a  garret;  a  subject  which,  except  some  slight  and  transient 
strictures,  has  been  hitherto  neglected  by  those  who  were  best 
qualified  to  adorn  it,  either  for  want  of  leisure  to  prosecute  the 
various  researches  in  which  a  nice  discussion  must  engage  them, 
or  because  it  requires  such  diversity  of  knowledge,  and  such 
extent  of  curiosity,  as  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  any  single  intel- 
lect; or  perhaps  others  foresaw  the  tumults  which  would  be 
raised  against  them,  and  confined  their  knowledge  to  their  own 
breasts,  and  abandoned  prejudice  and  folly  to  the  direction  of 
chance. 

That  the  professors  of  literature  generally  reside  in  the  high- 
est stories,  has  been  immemorially  observed.  The  wisdom  of 
the  ancients  was  well  acquainted  with  the  intellectual  advan- 
tages of  an  elevated  situation;  why  else  were  the  Muses  sta- 
tioned on  Olympus  or  Parnassus  by  those  who  could  with  equal 
right  have  raised  them  bowers  in  the  vale  of  Tempe,  or  erected 
their  altars  among  the  flexures  of  Meander?  Why  was  Jove 
himself  nursed  upon  a  mountain  ?  Or  why  did  the  goddesses, 
when  the  prize  of  beauty  was  contested,  try  the  cause  upon  the 
top  of  Ida?  Such  were  the  fictions  by  which  the  great  masters  of 
the  earlier  ages  endeavored  to  inculcate  to  posterity  the  impor- 
tance of  a  garret,  which,  though  they  had  been  long  obscured 
by  the  negligence  and  ignorance  of  succeeding  tunes,  were 
well  enforced  by  the  celebrated  symbol  of  Pythagoras,  av^v 
TrveovTwv  rrjv  fata  Trpovicvvei,  "when  the  wind  blows,  worship  its 
echo."  This  could  not  but  be  understood  by  his  disciples  as  an 
inviolable  injunction  to  live  in  a  garret,  which  I  have  found 
frequently  visited  by  the  echo  and  the  wind.  Nor  was  the  tra- 
dition wholly  obliterated  in  the  age  of  Augustus,  for  Tibullus 
evidently  congratulates  himself  upon  his  garret,  not  without 
some  allusion  to  the  Pythagorean  precept:  — - 

Quam  juval  immites  ventos  audire  cubantem 

Aul,  gelid  as  hybernus  aquas  cum  fuderit  aitster, 
Securum  somnos,  imbre  juvante,  sequi  I 


THE  RAMBLER  347 

How  sweet  in  sleep  to  pass  the  careless  hours, 
Lull'd  by  the  beating  winds  and  dashing  show'rs! 

And  it  is  impossible  not  to  discover  the  fondness  of  Lucre- 
tius, an  earlier  writer,  for  a  garret,  in  his  description  of  the  lofty 
towers  of  serene  learning,  and  of  the  pleasure  with  which  a  wise 
man  looks  down  upon  the  confused  and  erratic  state  of  the 
world  moving  below  him:  — 

Sed  nil  didcius  est,  bene  qttam  munila  tenere 
Edita  doctrina  sapientum  templa  serena; 
Despicere  unde  queas  olios,  passimque  viderc 
Errare,  atque  mam  palantis  quarere  mite. 


'T  is  sweet  thy  lab'ring  steps  to  guide 


To  virtue's  heights,  with  wisdom  well  supplied. 
And  all  the  magazines  of  learning  fortified; 
From  thence  to  look  below  on  human  kind, 
Bewilder'd  in  the  maze  of  life,  and  blind.  —  DRYDEN. 

The  institution  has,  indeed,  continued  to  our  own  time;  the 
garret  is  still  the  usual  receptacle  of  the  philosopher  and  poet; 
but  this,  like  many  ancient  customs,  is  perpetuated  only  by  an 
accidental  imitation,  without  knowledge  of  the  original  reason 
for  which  it  was  established. 

Causa  latet;  res  esl  notissima. 

The  cause  is  secret,  but  th'  effect  is  known.  —  ADDISON. 

Conjectures  have,  indeed,  been  advanced  concerning  these 
habitations  of  literature,  but  without  much  satisfaction  to  the 
judicious  inquirer.  Some  have  imagined  that  the  garret  is  gen- 
erally chosen  by  the  wits  as  most  easily  rented,  and  concluded 
that  no  man  rejoices  in  his  aerial  abode,  but  on  the  days  of  pay- 
ment. Others  suspect  that  a  garret  is  chiefly  convenient,  as  it  is 
remoter  than  any  other  part  of  the  house  from  the  outer  door, 
which  is  often  observed  to  be  infested  by  visitants,  who  talk 
incessantly  of  beer,  or  linen,  or  a  coat,  and  repeat  the  same 
sounds  every  morning,  and  sometimes  again  in  the  afternoon, 
without  any  variation,  except  that  they  grow  daily  more  impor- 
tunate and  clamorous,  and  raise  their  voices  in  time  from 
mournful  murmurs  to  raging  vociferations.  This  eternal  mo- 
notony is  always  detestable  to  a  man  whose  chief  pleasure  is  to 
enlarge  his  knowledge  and  vary  his  ideas.  Others  talk  of  free- 


348  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

dom  from  noise,  and  abstraction  from  common  business  or 
amusements;  and  some,  yet  more  visionary,  tell  us  that  the  fac- 
ulties are  enlarged  by  open  prospects,  and  that  the  fancy  is 
more  at  liberty  when  the  eye  ranges  without  confinement. 

These  conveniences  may  perhaps  all  be  found  in  a  well- 
chosen  garret;  but  surely  they  cannot  be  supposed  sufficiently 
important  to  have  operated  unvariably  upon  different  climates, 
distant  ages,  and  separate  nations.  Of  an  universal  practice, 
there  must  still  be  presumed  an  universal  cause,  which,  however 
recondite  and  abstruse,  may  be  perhaps  reserved  to  make  me 
illustrious  by  its  discovery,  and  you  by  its  promulgation. 

It  is  universally  known  that  the  faculties  of  the  mind  are  in- 
vigorated or  weakened  by  the  state  of  the  body,  and  that  the 
body  is  in  a  great  measure  regulated  by  the  various  compres- 
sions of  the  ambient  element.  The  effects  of  the  air  in  the  pro- 
duction or  cure  of  corporeal  maladies  have  been  acknowledged 
from  the  time  of  Hippocrates ;  but  no  man  has  yet  sufficiently 
considered  how  far  it  may  influence  the  operations  of  the  genius, 
though  every  day  affords  instances  of  local  understanding,  of 
wits  and  reasoners,  whose  faculties  are  adapted  to  some  single 
spot,  and  who,  when  they  are  removed  to  any  other  place,  sink 
at  once  into  silence  and  stupidity.  I  have  discovered,  by  a  long 
series  of  observations,  that  invention  and  elocution  suffer  great 
impediments  from  dense  and  impure  vapors,  and  that  the 
tenuity  of  a  defecated  air,  at  a  proper  distance  from  the  surface 
of  the  earth,  accelerates  the  fancy  and  sets  at  liberty  those  in- 
tellectual powers  which  were  before  shackled  by  too  strong  at- 
traction, and  unable  to  expand  themselves  under  the  pressure 
of  a  gross  atmosphere.  I  have  found  dullness  to  quicken  into 
sentiment  in  a  thin  ether,  as  water,  though  not  very  hot,  boils 
in  a  receiver  partly  exhausted ;  and  heads,  in  appearance  empty, 
have  teemed  with  notions  upon  rising  ground,  as  the  flaccid 
sides  of  a  football  would  have  swelled  out  into  stiffness  and  ex- 
tension. 

For  this  reason  I  never  think  myself  qualified  to  judge  de- 
cisively of  any  man's  faculties  whom  I  have  only  known  in  one 
degree  of  elevation,  but  take  some  opportunity  of  attending 
him  from  the  cellar  to  the  garret,  and  try  upon  him  all  the  vari- 
ous degrees  of  rarefaction  and  condensation,  tension  and  laxity. 
If  he  is  neither  vivacious  aloft,  nor  serious  below,  I  then  con- 


THE  RAMBLER  349 

sider  him  as  hopeless;  but  as  it  seldom  happens  that  I  do  not 
find  the  temper  to  which  the  texture  of  his  brain  is  fitted,  I  ac- 
commodate him  in  time  with  a  tube  of  mercury,  first  marking 
the  points  most  favorable  to  his  intellects,  according  to  rules 
which  I  have  long  studied,  and  which  I  may,  perhaps,  reveal  to 
mankind  in  a  complete  treatise  of  barometrical  pneumatology. 

Another  cause  of  the  gayety  and  sprightliness  of  the  dwellers 
in  garrets  is  probably  the  increase  of  that  vertiginous  motion 
with  which  we  are  carried  round  by  the  diurnal  revolution  of 
the  earth.  The  power  of  agitation  upon  the  spirits  is  well 
known;  every  man  has  felt  his  heart  lightened  in  a  rapid  vehi- 
cle, or  on  a  galloping  horse;  and  nothing  is  plainer  than  that 
he  who  towers  to  the  fifth  story  is  whirled  through  more  space 
by  every  circumrotation,  than  another  that  grovels  upon  the 
ground-floor.  The  nations  between  the  tropics  are  known  to  be 
fiery,  inconstant,  inventive,  and  fanciful;  because,  living  at  the 
utmost  length  of  the  earth's  diameter,  they  are  carried  about 
with  more  swiftness  than  those  whom  nature  has  placed  nearer 
to  the  poles;  and  therefore,  as  it  becomes  a  wise  man  to  struggle 
with  the  inconveniences  of  his  country,  whenever  celerity  and 
acuteness  are  requisite,  we  must  actuate  our  languor  by  taking 
a  few  turns  round  the  centre  in  a  garret. 

If  you  imagine  that  I  ascribe  to  air  and  motion  effects  which 
they  cannot  produce,  I  desire  you  to  consult  your  own  memory, 
and  consider  whether  you  have  never  known  a  man  acquire 
reputation  in  his  garret,  which,  when  fortune  or  a  patron  had 
placed  him  upon  the  first  floor,  he  was  unable  to  maintain;  and 
who  never  recovered  his  former  vigor  of  understanding,  till  he 
was  restored  to  his  original  situation.  That  a  garret  will  make 
every  man  a  wit,  I  am  very  far  from  supposing;  I  know  there 
are  some  who  would  continue  blockheads  even  on  the  summit 
of  the  Andes,  or  on  the  peak  of  Teneriffe.  But  let  not  any  man 
be  considered  as  unimprovable  till  this  potent  remedy  has  been 
tried;  for  perhaps  he  was  formed  to  be  great  only  in  a  garret,  as 
the  joiner  of  Aretaeuswas  rational  in  no  other  place  but  his  own 
shop. 

I  think  a  frequent  removal  to  various  distances  from  the  cen- 
tre so  necessary  to  a  just  estimate  of  intellectual  abilities,  and 
consequently  of  so  great  use  in  education,  that,  if  I  hoped  that 
the  public  could  be  persuaded  to  so  expensive  an  experiment,  I 


350  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

would  propose  that  there  should  be  a  cavern  dug,  and  a  tower 
erected,  like  those  which  Bacon  describes  in  Solomon's  house, 
for  the  expansion  and  concentration  of  understanding,  accord- 
ing to  the  exigence  of  different  employments  or  constitutions. 
Perhaps  some  that  fume  away  in  meditations  upon  time  and 
space  in  the  tower,  might  compose  tables  of  interest  at  a  certain 
depth;  and  he  that  upon  level  ground  stagnates  in  silence,  or 
creeps  in  narrative,  might,  at  the  height  of  half  a  mile,  ferment 
into  merriment,  sparkle  with  repartee,  and  froth  with  declama- 
tion. 

Addison  observes  that  we  may  find  the  heat  of  Virgil's  climate 
in  some  lines  of  his  Georgic;  so,  when  I  read  a  composition,  I 
immediately  determine  the  height  of  the  author's  habitation. 
As  an  elaborate  performance  is  commonly  said  to  smell  of  the 
lamp,  my  commendation  of  a  noble  thought,  a  sprightly  sally, 
or  a  bold  figure,  is  to  pronounce  it  fresh  from  the  garret,  —  an 
expression  which  would  break  from  me  upon  the  perusal  of  most 
of  your  papers,  did  I  not  believe  that  you  sometimes  quit  the 

garret,  and  ascend  into  the  cockloft.  TT 

HYPERTATUS. 

No.  161.  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  i,  1751 

Ql4l  yap  <j>ii\\uv  ytvti),  roirjSf  Kdl  &vdpwv.  —  HOMER. 

Frail  as  the  leaves  that  quiver  on  the  sprays, 
Like  them  man  flourishes,  like  them  decays. 

MR.  RAMBLER.    SIR: 

You  have  formerly  observed  that  curiosity  often  terminates 
in  barren  knowledge,  and  that  the  mind  is  prompted  to  study 
and  inquiry  rather  by  the  uneasiness  of  ignorance  than  the  hope 
of  profit.  Nothing  can  be  of  less  importance  to  any  present 
interest,  than  the  fortune  of  those  who  have  been  long  lost  in 
the  grave,  and  from  whom  nothing  now  can  be  hoped  or  feared. 
Yet,  to  rouse  the  zeal  of  a  true  antiquary,  little  more  is  necessary 
than  to  mention  a  name  which  mankind  have  conspired  to  for- 
get; he  will  make  his  way  to  remote  scenes  of  action,  through 
obscurity  and  contradiction,  as  Tully  sought  amidst  bushes 
and  brambles  the  tomb  of  Archimedes. 

It  is  not  easy  to  discover  how  it  concerns  him  that  gathers 
the  produce  or  receives  the  rent  of  an  estate,  to  know  through 
what  families  the  land  has  passed,  who  is  registered  in  the  Con- 


THE  RAMBLER  35r 

queror's  survey  as  its  possessor,  how  often  it  has  been  forfeited 
by  treason,  or  how  often  sold  by  prodigality.  The  power  or 
wealth  of  the  present  inhabitants  of  a  country  cannot  be  much 
increased  by  an  inquiry  after  the  names  of  those  barbarians  who 
destroyed  one  another,  twenty  centuries  ago,  in  contests  for  the 
shelter  of  woods  or  convenience  of  pasturage.  Yet  we  see  that 
no  man  can  be  at  rest  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  new  purchase,  till 
he  has  learned  the  history  of  his  grounds  from  the  ancient  in- 
habitants of  the  parish,  and  that  no  nation  omits  to  record  the 
actions  of  their  ancestors,  however  bloody,  savage,  and  rapa- 
cious. 

The  same  disposition,  as  different  opportunities  call  it  forth, 
discovers  itself  in  great  or  little  things.  I  have  always  thought 
it  unworthy  of  a  wise  man  to  slumber  in  total  inactivity,  only 
because  he  happens  to  have  no  employment  equal  to  his  ambi- 
tion or  genius.  It  is  therefore  my  custom  to  apply  my  attention 
to  the  objects  before  me;  and  as  I  cannot  think  any  place 
wholly  unworthy  of  notice  that  affords  a  habitation  to  a  man  of 
letters,  I  have  collected  the  history  and  antiquities  of  the  sev- 
eral garrets  in  which  I  have  resided. 

Quantulacunque  estis,  vos  ego  magna  voco. 
How  small  to  others,  but  how  great  to  me! 

Many  of  these  narratives  my  industry  has  been  able  to  extend 
to  a  considerable  length ;  but  the  woman  with  whom  I  now  lodge 
has  lived  only  eighteen  months  in  the  house,  and  can  give  no 
account  of  its  ancient  revolutions,  —  the  plasterer  having  at 
her  entrance  obliterated,  by  his  white-wash,  all  the  smoky  me- 
morials which  former  tenants  had  left  upon  the  ceiling,  and 
perhaps  drawn  the  veil  of  oblivion  over  politicians,  philoso- 
phers, and  poets. 

When  I  first  cheapened  my  lodgings,  the  landlady  told  me 
that  she  hoped  I  was  not  an  author,  for  the  lodgers  on  the  first 
floor  had  stipulated  that  the  upper  rooms  should  not  be  occu- 
pied by  a  noisy  trade.  I  very  readily  promised  to  give  no  dis- 
turbance to  her  family,  and  soon  despatched  a  bargain  on  the 
usual  terms.  I  had  not  slept  many  nights  in  my  new  apartment 
before  I  began  to  inquire  after  my  predecessors,  and  found 
my  landlady,  whose  imagination  is  filled  chiefly  with  her  own 
affairs,  very  ready  to  give  me  information. 


352  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Curiosity,  like,  all  other  desires,  produces  pain  as  well  as 
pleasure.  Before  she  began  her  narrative,  I  had  heated  my  head 
with  expectations  of  adventures  and  discoveries,  of  elegance  in 
disguise,  and  learning  in  distress,  and  was  somewhat  mortified 
when  I  heard  that  the  first  tenant  was  a  tailor,  of  whom  nothing 
was  remembered  but  that  he  complained  of  his  room  for  want 
of  light,  and,  after  having  lodged  in  it  a  month,  and  paid  only  a 
week's  rent,  pawned  a  piece  of  cloth  which  he  was  trusted  to  cut 
out,  and  was  forced  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat  from  this 
quarter  of  the  town. 

The  next  was  a  young  woman  newly  arrived  from  the  coun- 
try, who  lived  for  five  weeks  with  great  regularity,  and  became 
by  frequent  treats  very  much  the  favorite  of  the  family,  but  at 
last  received  visits  so  frequently  from  a  cousin  in  Cheapside  that 
she  brought  the  reputation  of  the  house  into  danger,  and  was 
therefore  dismissed  with  good  advice. 

The  room  then  stood  empty  for  a  fortnight;  my  landlady 
began  to  think  she  had  judged  hardly,  and  often  wished  for  such 
another  lodger.  At  last,  an  elderly  man  of  a  grave  aspect  read 
the  bill,  and  bargained  for  the  room  at  the  very  first  price  that 
was  asked.  He  lived  in  close  retirement,  seldom  went  out  till 
evening,  and  then  returned  early,  sometimes  cheerful  and  at 
other  times  dejected.  It  was  remarkable  that,  whatever  he  pur- 
chased, he  never  had  small  money  in  his  pocket;  and,  though 
cool  and  temperate  on  other  occasions,  was  always  vehement 
and  stormy  till  he  received  his  change.  He  paid  his  rent  with 
great  exactness,  and  seldom  failed  once  a  week  to  requite  my 
landlady's  civility  with  a  supper.  At  last  —  such  is  the  fate  of 
human  felicity!  —  the  house  was  alarmed  at  midnight  by  the 
constable,  who  demanded  to  search  the  garrets.  My  landlady, 
assuring  him  that  he  had  mistaken  the  door,  conducted  him  up 
stairs,  where  he  found  the  tools  of  a  coiner.  But  the  tenant  had 
crawled  along  the  roof  to  an  empty  house,  and  escaped,  — much 
to  the  joy  of  my  landlady,  who  declares  him  a  very  honest 
man,  and  wonders  why  anybody  should  be  hanged  for  making 
money,  when  such  numbers  are  in  want  of  it.  She  however  con- 
fesses that  she  shall,  for  the  future,  always  question  the  charac- 
ter of  those  who  take  her  garret  without  beating  down  the  price. 

The  bill  was  then  placed  again  in  the  window,  and  the  poor 
woman  was  teased  for  seven  weeks  by  innumerable  passengers, 


THE  RAMBLER  353 

who  obliged  her  to  climb  with  them  every  hour  up  five  stories, 
and  then  disliked  the  prospect,  hated  the  noise  of  a  public 
street,  thought  the  stairs  narrow,  objected  to  a  low  ceiling,  re- 
quired the  walls  to  be  hung  with  fresher  paper,  asked  questions 
about  the  neighborhood,  could  not  think  of  living  so  far  from 
their  acquaintance,  wished  the  windows  had  looked  to  the 
south  rather  than  the  west,  told  how  the  door  and  chimney 
might  have  been  better  disposed,  bid  her  half  the  price  that 
she  asked,  or  promised  to  give  her  earnest  the  next  day,  and 
came  no  more. 

At  last,  a  short,  meagre  man,  in  a  tarnished  waistcoat,  de- 
sired to  see  the  garret,  and,  when  he  had  stipulated  for  two  long 
shelves  and  a  larger  table,  hired  it  at  a  low  rate.  When  the  affair 
was  completed,  he  looked  round  him  with  great  satisfaction, 
and  repeated  some  words  which  the  woman  did  not  understand. 
In  two  days  he  brought  a  great  box  of  books,  took  possession 
of  his  room,  and  lived  very  inoffensively,  except  that  he  fre- 
quently disturbed  the  inhabitants  of  the  next  floor  by  unseason- 
able noises.  He  was  generally  in  bed  at  noon,  but  from  evening 
to  midnight  he  sometimes  talked  aloud  with  great  vehemence, 
sometimes  stamped  as  in  rage,  sometimes  threw  down  his  poker, 
then  clattered  his  chairs,  then  sat  down  in  deep  thought,  and 
again  burst  out  into  loud  vociferations;  sometimes  he  would 
sigh  as  oppressed  with  misery,  and  sometimes  shake  with  con- 
vulsive laughter.  When  he  encountered  any  of  the  family,  he 
gave  way  or  bowed,  but  rarely  spoke,  except  that  as  he  went  up 
stairs  he  often  repeated,  — 

'Os  VTrtprara  Sii/txora  vald 

(This  habitant  th 'aerial  regions  boast); 

—  hard  words,  to  which  his  neighbors  listened  so  often  that  they 
learned  them  without  understanding  them.  What  was  his  em- 
ployment she  did  not  venture  to  ask  him,  but  at  last  heard  a 
printer's  boy  inquire  for  "  the  author."  My  landlady  was  very 
often  advised  to  beware  of  this  strange  man,  who,  though  he 
was  quiet  for  the  present,  might  perhaps  become  outrageous  in 
the  hot  months.  But,  as  she  was  punctually  paid,  she  could  not 
find  any  sufficient  reason  for  dismissing  him,  till  one  night  he 
convinced  her,  by  setting  fire  to  his  curtains,  that  it  was  not 
safe  to  have  an  author  for  her  inmate. 


354  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

She  had  then  for  six  weeks  a  succession  of  tenants,  who  left 
the  house  on  Saturday,  and,  instead  of  paying  their  rent, 
stormed  at  their  landlady.  At  last  she  took  in  two  sisters,  one 
of  whom  had  spent  her  little  fortune  in  procuring  remedies  for  a 
lingering  disease,  and  was  now  supported  and  attended  by  the 
other.  She  climbed  with  difficulty  to  the  apartment,  where  she 
languished  eight  weeks  without  impatience  or  lamentation, 
except  for  the  expense  and  fatigue  which  her  sister  suffered,  and 
then  calmly  and  contentedly  expired.  The  sister  followed  her 
to  the  grave,  paid  the  few  debts  which  they  had  contracted, 
wiped  away  the  tears  of  useless  sorrow,  and,  returning  to  the 
business  of  common  life,  resigned  to  me  the  vacant  habitation. 

Such,  Mr.  Rambler,  are  the  changes  which  have  happened  in 
the  narrow  space  where  my  present  fortune  has  fixed  my  resi- 
dence. So  true  it  is  that  amusement  and  instruction  are  always 
at  hand  for  those  who  have  skill  and  willingness  to  find  them, 
and  so  just  is  the  observation  of  Juvenal,  that  a  single  house  will 
show  whatever  is  done  or  suffered  in  the  world. 
I  am,  sir,  &c. 

PREFACE  TO  THE  DICTIONARY 

1755 

[On  the  Dictionary,  see  BoswelFs  account,  page  638,  below.  The  ex- 
tract from  the  Preface  here  reprinted  is  the  concluding  portion.] 

.  .  .  THUS  have  I  labored,  by  settling  the  orthography,  dis- 
playing the  analogy,  regulating  the  structures,  and  ascertain- 
ing the  signification  of  English  words,  to  perform  all  the  parts 
of  a  faithful  lexicographer;  but  I  have  not  always  executed  my 
own  scheme,  or  satisfied  my  own  expectations.  The  work, 
whatever  proofs  of  diligence  and  attention  it  may  exhibit,  is  yet 
capable  of  many  improvements :  the  orthography  which  I  re- 
commend is  still  controvertible;  the  etymology  which  I  adopt 
is  uncertain,  and  perhaps  frequently  erroneous;  the  explana- 
tions are  sometimes  too  much  contracted,  and  sometimes  too 
much  diffused ;  the  significations  are  distinguished  rather  with 
subtlety  than  skill,  and  the  attention  is  harassed  with  unneces- 
sary minuteness. 
The  examples  are  too  often  injudiciously  truncated,  and  per- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  DICTIONARY  355 

haps  sometimes  —  I  hope  very  rarely  —  alleged  in  a  mistaken 
sense;  for  in  making  this  collection  I  trusted  more  to  memory 
than,  in  a  state  of  disquiet  and  embarrassment,  memory  can 
contain,  and  purposed  to  supply  at  the  review  what  was  left 
incomplete  in  the  first  transcription. 

Many  terms  appropriated  to  particular  occupations,  though 
necessary  and  significant,  are  undoubtedly  omitted;  and  of  the 
words  most  studiously  considered  and  exemplified,  many  senses 
have  escaped  observation. 

Yet  these  failures,  however  frequent,  may  admit  extenuation 
and  apology.  To  have  attempted  much  is  always  laudable, 
even  when  the  enterprise  is  above  the  strength  that  undertakes 
it;  to  rest  below  his  own  aim  is  incident  to  every  one  whose 
fancy  is  active,  and  whose  views  are  comprehensive;  nor  is  any 
man  satisfied  with  himself  because  he  has  done  much,  but  be- 
cause he  can  conceive  little.  When  first  I  engaged  in  this  work, 
I  resolved  to  leave  neither  words  nor  things  unexamined,  and 
pleased  myself  with  a  prospect  of  the  hours  which  I  should  revel 
away  in  feasts  of  literature,  the  obscure  recesses  of  northern 
learning  which  I  should  enter  and  ransack,  the  treasures  with 
which  I  expected  every  search  into  those  neglected  mines  to  re- 
ward my  labor,  and  the  triumph  with  which  I  should  display 
my  acquisitions  to  mankind.  When  I  had  thus  inquired  into  the 
original  of  words,  I  resolved  to  show  likewise  my  attention  to 
things;  to  pierce  deep  into  every  science,  to  inquire  the  nature 
of  every  substance  of  which  I  inserted  the  name,  to  limit  every 
idea  by  a  definition  strictly  logical,  and  exhibit  every  production 
of  art  or  nature  in  an  accurate  description,  that  my  book  might 
be  in  place  of  all  other  dictionaries,  whether  appellative  or 
technical.  But  these  were  the  dreams  of  a  poet  doomed  at  last 
to  wake  a  lexicographer.  I  soon  found  that  it  is  too  late  to  look 
for  instruments,  when  the  work  calls  for  execution,  and  that 
whatever  abilities  I  had  brought  to  my  task,  with  those  I  must 
finally  perform  it.  To  deliberate  whenever  I  doubted,  to  inquire 
whenever  I  was  ignorant,  would  have  protracted  the  undertak- 
ing without  end,  and,  perhaps,  without  much  improvement;  for 
I  did  not  find  by  my  first  experiments,  that  what  I  had  not  of 
my  own  was  easily  to  be  obtained :  I  saw  that  one  inquiry  only 
gave  occasion  to  another,  that  book  referred  to  book,  chat  to 
search  was  not  always  to  find,  and  to  find  was  not  always  to  be 


356  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

informed;  and  that  thus  to  pursue  perfection  was,  like  the  first 
inhabitants  of  Arcadia,  to  chase  the  sun,  which,  when  they  had 
reached  the  hill  where  he  seemed  to  rest,  was  still  beheld  at  the 
same  distance  from  them. 

I  then  contracted  my  design,  determining  to  confide  in  myself, 
and  no  longer  to  solicit  auxiliaries,  which  produced  more  encum- 
brance than  assistance;  by  this  I  obtained  at  least  one  advan- 
tage, that  I  set  limits  to  my  work,  which  would  in  time  be 
ended,  though  not  completed. 

Despondency  has  never  so  far  prevailed  as  to  depress  me  to 
negligence;  some  faults  will  at  last  appear  to  be  the  effects  of 
anxious  diligence  and  persevering  activity.  The  nice  and  subtle 
ramifications  of  meaning  were  not  easily  avoided  by  a  mind  in- 
tent upon  accuracy,  and  convinced  of  the  necessity  of  disen- 
tangling combinations  and  separating  similitudes.  Many  of  the 
distinctions  which  to  common  readers  appear  useless  and  idle, 
will  be  found  real  and  important  by  men  versed  in  the  school 
philosophy,  without  which  no  dictionary  can  ever  be  accurately 
compiled,  or  skillfully  examined. 

Some  senses,  however,  there  are,  which,  though  not  the  same, 
are  yet  so  nearly  allied  that  they  are  often  confounded.  Most 
men  think  indistinctly,  and  therefore  cannot  speak  with  exact- 
ness; and  consequently  some  examples  might  be  indifferently 
put  to  either  signification.  This  uncertainty  is  not  to  be  im- 
puted to  me,  who  do  not  form,  but  register  the  language;  who 
do  not  teach  men  how  they  should  think,  but  relate  how  they 
have  hitherto  expressed  their  thoughts. 

The  imperfect  sense  of  some  examples  I  lamented,  but  could 
not  remedy,  and  hope  they  will  be  compensated  by  innumerable 
passages  selected  with  propriety,  and  preserved  with  exactness; 
some  shining  with  sparks  of  imagination,  and  some  replete  with 
treasures  of  wisdom. 

The  orthography  and  etymology,  though  imperfect,  are  not 
imperfect  for  want  of  care,  but  because  care  will  not  always  be 
successful,  and  recollection  or  information  come  too  late  for  use. 

That  many  terms  of  art  and  manufacture  are  omitted,  must 
be  frankly  acknowledged ;  but  for  this  defect  I  may  boldly  al- 
lege that  it  was  unavoidable ;  I  could  not  visit  caverns  to  learn 
the  miner's  language,  nor  take  a  voyage  to  perfect  my  skill  in 
the  dialect  of  navigation,  nor  visit  the  warehouses  of  merchants, 


PREFACE   TO  THE   DICTIONARY  357 

and  shops  of  artificers,  to  gain  the  names  of  wares,  tools,  and 
operations,  of  which  no  mention  is  found  in  books.  What  fa- 
vorable accident  or  easy  inquiry  brought  within  my  reach,  has 
not  been  neglected;  but  it  had  been  a  hopeless  labor  to  glean  up 
words  by  courting  living  information,  and  contesting  with  the 
sullenness  of  one  and  the  roughness  of  another. 

To  furnish  the  Academicians  della  Crusca  with  words  of  this 
kind,  a  series  of  comedies  called  La  Fiera,  or  The  Fair,  was  pro- 
fessedly written  by  Buonaroti;  but  I  had  no  such  assistant,  and 
therefore  was  content  to  want  what  they  must  have  wanted 
likewise,  had  they  not  luckily  been  so  supplied. 

Nor  are  all  words  which  are  not  found  in  the  vocabulary  to  be 
lamented  as  omissions.  Of  the  laborious  and  mercantile  part  of 
the  people,  the  diction  is  in  a  great  measure  casual  and  mutable; 
many  of  their  terms  are  formed  for  some  temporary  or  local 
convenience,  and,  though  current  at  certain  times  and  places, 
are  in  others  utterly  unknown.  This  fugitive  cant,  which  is  al- 
ways in  a  state  of  increase  or  decay,  cannot  be  regarded  as  any 
part  of  the  durable  materials  of  a  language,  and  therefore  must 
be  suffered  to  perish  with  other  things  unworthy  of  preserva- 
tion. 

Care  will  sometimes  betray  to  the  appearance  of  negligence. 
He  that  is  catching  opportunities  which  seldom  occur,  will 
suffer  those  to  pass  by  unregarded,  which  he  expects  hourly  to 
return ;  he  that  is  searching  for  rare  and  remote  things,  will  neg- 
lect those  that  are  obvious  and  familiar;  thus  many  of  the  most 
common  and  cursory  words  have  been  inserted  with  little  illus- 
tration, because  in  gathering  the  authorities  I  forebore  to  copy 
those  which  I  thought  likely  to  occur  whenever  they  were 
wanted.  It  is  remarkable  that,  in  reviewing  my  collection,  I 
found  the  word  sea  unexemplified. 

Thus  it  happens  that  in  things  difficult  there  is  danger  from 
ignorance,  and  in  things  easy  from  confidence;  the  mind,  afraid 
of  greatness  and  disdainful  of  littleness,  hastily  withdraws  her- 
self from  painful  searches,  and  passes  with  scornful  rapidity 
over  tasks  not  adequate  to  her  powers;  sometimes  too  secure  for 
caution,  and  again  too  anxious  for  vigorous  effort;  sometimes 
idle  in  a  plain  path,  and  sometimes  distracted  in  labyrinths,  and 
dissipated  by  different  intentions. 

A  large  work  is  difficult  because  it  is  large,  even  though  all  its 


358  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

parts  might  singly  be  performed  with  facility.  Where  there 
are  many  things  to  be  done,  each  must  be  allowed  its  share  of 
time  and  labor,  in  the  proportion  only  which  it  bears  to  the 
whole;  nor  can  it  be  expected  that  the  stones  which  form  the 
dome  of  a  temple  should  be  squared  and  polished  like  the  dia- 
mond of  a  ring. 

Of  the  event  of  this  work,  for  which,  having  labored  it  with  so 
much  application,  I  cannot  but  have  some  degree  of  parental 
fondness,  it  is  natural  to  form  conjectures.  Those  who  have 
been  persuaded  to  think  well  of  my  design,  will  require  that  it 
should  fix  our  language,  and  put  a  stop  to  those  alterations 
which  time  and  chance  have  hitherto  been  suffered  to  make  in 
it  without  opposition.  With  this  consequence  I  will  confess 
that  I  flattered  myself  for  a  while ;  but  now  begin  to  fear  that  I 
have  indulged  expectation  which  neither  reason  nor  experience 
can  justify.  When  we  see  men  grow  old  and  die  at  a  certain 
time  one  after  another,  from  century  to  century,  we  laugh  at  the 
elixir  that  promises  to  prolong  life  to  a  thousand  years;  and 
with  equal  justice  may  the  lexicographer  be  derided,  who,  being 
able  to  produce  no  example  of  a  nation  that  has  preserved  their 
words  and  phrases  from  mutability,  shall  imagine  that  his  dicv 
tionary  can  embalm  his  language,  and  secure  it  from  corruption 
and  decay,  —  that  it  is  in  his  power  to  change  sublunary  na- 
ture, and  clear  the  world  at  once  from  folly,  vanity,  and  affec- 
tation. 

With  this  hope,  however,  academies  have  been  instituted, 
to  guard  the  avenues  of  their  languages,  to  retain  fugitives,  and 
repulse  intruders;  but  their  vigilance  and  activity  have  hitherto 
been  vain.  Sounds  are  too  volatile  anpl  subtile  for  legal  restraints ; 
to  enchain  syllables,  and  to  lash  the  wind,  are  equally  the  under- 
takings of  pride,  unwilling  to  measure  its  desires  by  its  strength. 
The  French  language  has  visibly  changed  under  the  inspection 
of  the  Academy;  the  style  of  Amelot's  translation  of  Father 
Paul  is  observed  by  Le  Courayer  to  be  un  pen  passe;  and  no 
Italian  will  maintain  that  the  diction  of  any  modern  writer  is 
not  perceptibly  different  from  that  of  Boccace,  Machiavel,  or 
Caro. 

Total  and  sudden  transformations  of  a  language  seldom  hap- 
pen ;  conquests  and  migrations  are  now  very  rare ;  but  there  are 
other  causes  of  change,  which,  though  slow  in  their  operation 


PREFACE  TO  THE  DICTIONARY  359 

and  invisible  in  their  progress,  are  perhaps  as  much  superior 
to  human  resistance  as  the  revolutions  of  the  sky  or  intumes- 
cence of  the  tide.  Commerce,  however  necessary,  however  lucra- 
tive, as  it  depraves  the  manners,  corrupts  the  language;  they 
that  have  frequent  intercourse  with  strangers,  to  whom  they 
endeavor  to  accommodate  themselves,  must  in  time  learn  a 
mingled  dialect,  like  the  jargon  which  serves  the  traffickers  on 
the  Mediterranean  and  Indian  coasts.  This  will  not  always  be 
confined  to  the  exchange,  the  warehouse,  or  the  port,  but  will 
be  communicated  by  degrees  to  other  ranks  of  the  people,  and 
be  at  last  incorporated  with  the  current  speech. 

There  are  likewise  internal  causes  equally  forcible.  The  lan- 
guage most  likely  to  continue  long  without  alteration,  would 
be  that  of  a  nation  raised  a  little,  and  but  a  little,  above  bar- 
barity, secluded  from  strangers,  and  totally  employed  in  pro- 
curing the  conveniences  of  life;  either  without  books,  or,  like 
some  of  the  Mahometan  countries,  with  very  few.  Men  thus 
busied  and  unlearned,  having  only  such  words  as  common  use 
requires,  would  perhaps  long  continue  to  express  the  same  no- 
tions by  the  same  signs.  But  no  such  constancy  can  be  expected 
in  a  people  polished  by  arts,  and  classed  by  subordination, 
where  one  part  of  the  community  is  sustained  and  accommo- 
dated by  the  labor  of  the  other.  Those  who  have  much  leisure 
to  think,  will  always  be  enlarging  the  stock  of  ideas;  and  every 
increase  of  knowledge,  whether  real  or  fancied,  will  produce  new 
words,  or  combination  of  words.  When  the  mind  is  unchained 
from  necessity,  it  will  range  after  convenience;  when  it  is  left 
at  large  in  the  fields  of  speculation,  it  will  shift  opinions;  as  any 
custom  is  disused,  the  words  that  expressed  it  must  perish  with 
it;  as  any  opinion  grows  popular,  it  will  innovate  speech  in  the 
same  proportion  as  it  alters  practice. 

As  by  the  cultivation  of  various  sciences  a  language  is  am- 
plified, it  will  be  more  furnished  with  words  deflected  from  their 
original  sense;  the  geometrician  will  talk  of  a  courtier's  zenith, 
or  the  eccentric  virtue  of  a  wild  hero,  and  the  physician,  of  san- 
guine expectations  and  phlegmatic  delays.  Copiousness  of 
speech  will  give  opportunities  to  capricious  choice,  by  which 
some  words  will  be  preferred,  and  others  degraded;  vicissitudes 
of  fashion  will  enforce  the  use  of  new,  or  extend  the  significa- 
tion of  known  terms.  The  tropes  of  poetry  will  make  hourly 


360  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

encroachments,  and  the  metaphorical  will  become  the  current 
sense;  pronunciation  will  be  varied  by  levity  or  ignorance,  and 
the  pen  must  at  length  comply  with  the  tongue;  illiterate 
writers  will,  at  one  time  or  other,  by  public  infatuation,  rise 
into  renown,  who,  not  knowing  the  original  import  of  words, 
will  use  them  with  colloquial  licentiousness,  confound  distinc- 
tion, and  forget  propriety.  As  politeness  increases,  some  expres- 
sions will  be  considered  as  too  gross  and  vulgar  for  the  delicate, 
others  as  too  formal  and  ceremonious  for  the  gay  and  airy;  new 
phrases  are  therefore  adopted,  which  must  for  the  same  reasons 
be  in  time  dismissed.  Swift,  in  his  petty  treatise  on  the  English 
language,  allows  that  new  words  must  sometimes  be  introduced, 
but  proposes  that  none  should  be  suffered  to  become  obsolete. 
But  what  makes  a  word  obsolete,  more  than  general  agreement 
to  forbear  it?  And  how  shall  it  be  continued,  when  it  conveys 
an  offensive  idea,  or  recalled  again  into  the  mouths  of  mankind, 
when  it  has  once  become  unfamiliar  by  disuse,  and  unpleasing 
by  unfamiliarity? 

There  is  another  cause  of  alteration  more  prevalent  than  any 
other,  which  yet  in  the  present  state  of  the  world  cannot  be  ob- 
viated. A  mixture  of  two  languages  will  produce  a  third  dis- 
tinct from  both,  and  they  will  always  be  mixed,  where  the  chief 
parts  of  education,  and  the  most  conspicuous  accomplishment,  is 
skill  in  ancient  or  in  foreign  tongues.  He  that  has  long  culti- 
vated another  language,  will  find  its  words  and  combinations 
crowd  upon  his  memory;  and  haste  and  negligence,  refinement 
and  affectation,  will  obtrude  borrowed  terms  and  exotic  ex- 
pressions. 

The  great  pest  of  speech  is  frequency  of  translation.  No 
book  was  ever  turned  from  one  language  into  another,  without 
imparting  something  of  its  native  idiom ;  this  is  the  most  mis- 
chievous and  comprehensive  innovation.  Single  words  may  enter 
by  thousands,  and  the  fabric  of  the  tongue  continue  the  same; 
but  new  phraseology  changes  much  at  once;  —  it  alters  not 
the  single  stones  of  the  building,  but  the  order  of  the  columns. 
If  an  academy  should  be  established  for  the  cultivation  of  our 
style  — -  which  I,  who  can  never  wish  to  see  dependence  multi- 
plied, hope  the  spirit  of  English  liberty  will  hinder  or  destroy  — 
let  them,  instead  of  compiling  grammars  and  dictionaries,  en- 
deavor, with  all  their  influence,  to  stop  the  license  of  transla- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  DICTIONARY  361 

tors,  whose  idleness  and  ignorance,  it  it  be  suffered  to  proceed, 
will  reduce  us  to  babble  a  dialect  of  France. 

If  the  changes  that  we  fear  be  thus  irresistible,  what  remains 
but  to  acquiesce  with  silence,  as  in  the  other  insurmountable 
distresses  of  humanity?  It  remains  that  we  retard  what  we  can- 
not repel,  that  we  palliate  what  we  cannot  cure.  Life  may  be 
lengthened  by  care,  though  death  cannot  be  ultimately  de- 
feated; tongues,  like  governments,  have  a  natural  tendency  to 
degeneration;  we  have  long  preserved  our  constitution,  —  let 
us  make  some  struggles  for  our  language. 

In  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  which  its  own  nature  for- 
bids to  be  immortal,  I  have  devoted  this  book,  the  labor  of 
years,  to  the  honor  of  my  country,  that  we  may  no  longer  yield 
the  palm  of  philology,  without  a  contest,  to  the  nations  of  the 
continent.  The  chief  glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its  au- 
thors. Whether  I  shall  add  anything  by  my  own  writings  to 
the  reputation  of  English  literature,  must  be  left  to  time.  Much 
of  my  life  has  been  lost  under  the  pressures  of  disease;  much 
has  been  trifled  away;  and  much  has  always  been  spent  in  pro- 
vision for  the  day  that  was  passing  over  me;  but  I  shall  not 
think  my  employment  useless  or  ignoble,  if  by  my  assistance 
foreign  nations,  and  distant  ages,  gain  access  to  the  propagators 
of  knowledge,  and  understand  the  teachers  of  truth;  if  my  la- 
bors afford  light  to  the  repositories  of  science,  and  add  celebrity 
to  Bacon,  to  Hooker,  to  Milton,  and  to  Boyle. 

When  I  am  animated  by  this  wish,  I  look  with  pleasure  on 
my  book,  however  defective,  and  deliver  it  to  the  world  with 
the  spirit  of  a  man  that  has  endeavored  well.  That  it  will  im- 
mediately become  popular  I  have  not  promised  to  myself;  a 
few  wild  blunders,  and  risible  absurdities,  from  which  no  work 
of  such  multiplicity  was  ever  free,  may  for  a  tune  furnish  folly 
with  laughter,  and  harden  ignorance  into  contempt;  but  useful 
diligence  will  at  last  prevail,  and  there  never  can  be  wanting 
some  who  distinguish  desert;  who  will  consider  that  no  dic- 
tionary of  a  living  tongue  ever  can  be  perfect,  since,  while  it  is 
hastening  to  publication,  some  words  are  budding,  and  some 
falling  away;  —  that  a  whole  life  cannot  be  spent  upon  syntax 
and  etymology,  and  that  even  a  whole  life  would  not  be  suffi- 
cient; that  he  whose  design  includes  whatever  language  can  ex- 
press, must  often  speak  of  what  he  does  not  understand;  that  a 


362  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

writer  will  sometimes  be  hurried  by  eagerness  to  the  end,  and 
sometimes  faint  with  weariness  under  a  task  which  Scaliger  com- 
pares to  the  labors  of  the  anvil  and  the  mine;  that  what  is  obvi- 
ous is  not  always  known,  and  what  is  known  is  not  always  pre- 
sent; that  sudden  fits  of  inadvertency  will  surprise  vigilance, 
slight  avocations  will  seduce  attention,  and  casual  eclipses  of 
the  mind  will  darken  learning;  and  that  the  writer  shall  often  hi 
vain  trace  his  memory,  at  the  moment  of  need,  for  that  which 
yesterday  he  knew  with  intuitive  readiness,  and  which  will 
come  uncalled  into  his  thoughts  to-morrow. 

In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that  much  is  omitted,  let 
it  not  be  forgotten  that  much  likewise  is  performed ;  and  though 
no  book  was  ever  spared  out  of  tenderness  to  the  author,  and 
the  world  is  little  solicitous  to  know  whence  proceed  the  faults 
of  that  which  it  condemns,  yet  it  may  gratify  curiosity  to  in- 
form it  that  the  English  Dictionary  was  written  with  little  as- 
sistance of  the  learned,  and  without  any  patronage  of  the  great; 
not  in  the  soft  obscurities  of  retirement,  or  under  the  shelter  of 
academic  bowers,  but  amidst  inconvenience  and  distraction,  in 
sickness  and  in  sorrow.  It  may  repress  the  triumph  of  malig- 
nant criticism  to  observe  that,  if  our  language  is  not  here  fully 
displayed,  I  have  only  failed  in  an  attempt  which  no  human 
powers  have  hitherto  completed.  If  the  lexicons  of  ancient 
tongues,  now  immutably  fixed,  and  comprised  in  a  few  volumes, 
be  yet,  after  the  toil  of  successive  ages,  inadequate  and  delu- 
sive ;  if  the  aggregated  knowledge  and  co-operating  diligence  of 
the  Italian  academicians  did  not  secure  them  from  the  censure 
of  Beni;  if  the  embodied  critics  of  France,  when  fifty  years  had 
been  spent  upon  their  work,  were  obliged  to  change  its  economy, 
and  give  their  second  edition  another  form,  I  may  surely  be 
contented  without  the  praise  of  perfection,  —  which  if  I  could 
obtain,  in  this  gloom  of  solitude,  what  would  it  avail  me?  I 
have  protracted  my  work  till  most  of  those  whom  I  wished  to 
please  have  sunk  into  the  grave,  and  success  and  miscarriage 
are  empty  sounds;  I  therefore  dismiss  it  with  frigid  tranquil- 
lity, having  little  to  fear  or  hope  from  censure  or  from  praise. 


THE  IDLER  363 


THE   IDLER 

[The  Idler  papers,  Johnson's  last  periodical  writings,  appeared  on  Satur- 
days, from  April,  1758,  to  April,  1760,  in  Newbery's  Universal  Chronicle. 
Of  the  103  essays  all  but  twelve  were  Johnson's  own.] 

No.  36.   SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  23,  1758 

THE  great  differences  that  disturb  the  peace  of  mankind  are 
not  about  ends,  but  means.  We  have  all  the  same  general  de- 
sires, but  how  those  desires  shall  be  accomplished  will  forever 
be  disputed.  The  ultimate  purpose  of  government  is  temporal, 
and  that  of  religion  is  eternal  happiness.  Hitherto  we  agree; 
but  here  we  must  part,  to  try,  according  to  the  endless  varieties 
of  passion  and  understanding  combined  with  one  another,  every 
possible  form  of  government  and  every  imaginable  tenet  of  re- 
ligion. 

We  are  told  by  Cumberland  that  rectitude,  applied  to  action 
or  contemplation,  is  merely  metaphorical,  and  that  as  a  right 
line  describes  the  shortest  passage  from  point  to  point,  so  a 
right  action  effects  a  good  design  by  the  fewest  means;  and  so 
likewise  a  right  opinion  is  that  which  connects  distant  truths 
by  the  shortest  train  of  intermediate  propositions.  To  find 
the  nearest  way  from  truth  to  truth,  or  from  purpose  to  effect, 
not  to  use  more  instruments  where  fewer  will  be  sufficient,  — 
not  to  move  by  wheels  and  levers  what  will  give  way  to  the  naked 
hand,  is  the  great  proof  of  a  healthful  and  vigorous  mind, 
neither  feeble  with  helpless  ignorance,  nor  overburdened  with 
unwieldy  knowledge. 

But  there  are  men  who  seem  to  think  nothing  so  much  the 
characteristic  of  a  genius  as  to  do  common  things  in  an  uncom- 
mon manner;  like  Hudibras,  to  "  tell  the  clock  by  algebra,"  or, 
like  the  lady  in  Dr.  Young's  satires,  "  to  drink  tea  by  strata- 
gem"; to  quit  the  beaten  track  only  because  it  is  known,  and 
take  a  new  path,  however  crooked  or  rough,  because  the  straight 
was  found  out  before. 

Every  man  speaks  and  writes  with  intent  to  be  understood; 
and  it  can  seldom  happen  but  he  that  understands  himself 
might  convey  his  notions  to  another,  if,  content  to  be  under- 
stood, he  did  not  seek  to  be  admired.  But  when  once  he  begins 


364  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

to  contrive  how  his  sentiments  may  be  received,  not  with  most 
ease  to  his  reader,  but  with  most  advantage  to  himself,  he  then 
transfers  his  consideration  from  words  to  sounds,  from  sen- 
tences to  periods,  and  as  he  grows  more  elegant  becomes  less 
intelligible. 

It  is  difficult  to  enumerate  every  species  of  authors  whose 
labors  counteract  themselves:  the  man  of  exuberance  and 
copiousness,  who  diffuses  every  thought  through  so  many  di- 
versities of  expression,  that  it  is  lost  like  water  in  a  mill;  the 
ponderous  dictator  of  sentences,  whose  notions  are  delivered  in 
the  lump,  and  are,  like  uncoined  bullion,  of  more  weight  than 
use;  the  liberal  illustrator,  who  shows  by  examples  and  com- 
parisons what  was  clearly  seen  when  it  was  first  proposed;  and 
the  stately  son  of  demonstration,  who  proves  with  mathemati- 
cal formality  what  no  man  has  yet  pretended  to  doubt. 

There  is  a  mode  of  style  for  which  I  know  not  that  the  masters 
of  oratory  have  yet  found  a  name;  a  style  by  which  the  most 
evident  truths  are  so  obscured  that  they  can  no  longer  be  per- 
ceived, and  the  most  familiar  propositions  so  dignified  that  they 
cannot  be  known.  Every  other  kind  of  eloquence  is  the  dress  of 
sense,  but  this  is  the  mask  by  which  a  true  master  of  his  art  will 
so  effectually  conceal  it,  that  a  man  will  as  easily  mistake  his 
own  positions,  if  he  meets  them  thus  transformed,  as  he  may 
pass  in  a  masquerade  his  nearest  acquaintance.  This  style  may 
be  called  the  terrific,  for  its  chief  intention  is  to  terrify  and 
amaze.  It  may  be  termed  the  repulsive,  for  its  natural  effect  is 
to  drive  away  the  reader.  Or  it  may  be  distinguished,  in  plain 
English,  by  the  denomination  of  the  bugbear  style,  for  it  has 
more  terror  than  danger,  and  will  appear  less  formidable  as  it  is 
more  nearly  approached. 

A  mother  tells  her  infant  that  "  two  and  two  make  four  " ;  the 
child  remembers  the  proposition,  and  is  able  to  count  four  to 
all  the  purposes  of  life,  till  the  course  of  his  education  brings 
him  among  philosophers,  who  fight  him  from  his  former  know- 
ledge by  telling  him  that  four  is  a  certain  aggregate  of  units,  — 
that  all  numbers  being  only  the  repetition  of  an  unit,  which 
though  not  a  number  itself,  is  the  parent,  root,  or  original  of  all 
number,  four  is  the  denomination  assigned  to  a  certain  number 
of  such  repetitions.  The  only  danger  is,  lest,  when  he  first  hears 
these  dreadful  sounds,  the  pupil  should  run  away;  if  he  has  but 


THE  IDLER  365 

the  courage  to  stay  till  the  conclusion,  he  will  find  that,  when 
speculation  has  done  its  worst,  two  and  two  still  make  four. 

An  illustrious  example  of  this  species  of  eloquence  may  be 
found  in  Letters  concerning  Mind.1  The  author  begins  by  de- 
claring that  "  the  sorts  of  things  are,  things  that  now  are,  have 
been,  and  shall  be,  and  the  things  that  strictly  are"  In  this 
position,  —  except  the  last  clause,  in  which  he  uses  something 
of  the  scholastic  language,  —  there  is  nothing  but  what  every 
man  has  heard  and  imagines  himself  to  know.  But  who  would 
not  believe  that  some  wonderful  novelty  is  presented  to  his  in- 
tellect, when  he  is  afterwards  told,  in  the  true  bugbear  style, 
that  "  the  ares,  in  the  former  sense,  are  things  that  lie  between 
the  have-beens  and  shall-bes.  The  have-beens  are  things  that  are 
past;  the  shall-bes  are  things  that  are  to  come;  and  the  things 
that  are,  in  the  latter  sense,  are  things  that  have  not  been,  nor 
shall  be,  nor  stand  in  the  midst  of  such  as  are  before  them  or 
shall  be  after  them.  The  things  that  have  been  and  shall  be 
have  respect  to  present,  past,  and  future.  Those  likewise  that 
now  are  have,  moreover,  place;  that,  for  instance,  which  is  here, 
that  which  is  to  the  East,  that  which  is  to  the  West." 

All  this,  my  dear  reader,  is  very  strange;  but  though  it  be 
strange  it  is  not  new.  Survey  these  wonderful  sentences  again, 
and  they  will  be  found  to  contain  nothing  more  than  very  plain 
truths,  which  till  this  author  arose  had  always  been  delivered 
in  plain  language. 

No.  85.  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  i,  1759 
One  of  the  peculiarities  which  distinguish  the  present  age  is 
the  multiplication  of  books.  Every  day  brings  new  adver- 
tisements of  literary  undertakings,  and  we  are  flattered  with 
repeated  promises  of  growing  wise  on  easier  terms  than  our 
progenitors. 

How  much  either  happiness  or  knowledge  is  advanced  by 
this  multitude  of  authors,  it  is  not  very  easy  to  decide.  He  that 
teaches  us  anything  which  we  knew  not  before,  is  undoubtedly 
to  be  reverenced  as  a  master.  He  that  conveys  knowledge  by 
more  pleasing  ways,  may  very  properly  be  loved  as  a  benefac- 
tor; and  he  that  supplies  life  with  innocent  amusement  will  be 
certainly  caressed  as  a  pleasing  companion.  But  few  of  those 

t  By  John  Petvin  (1750). 


366  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

who  fill  the  world  with  books  have  any  pretensions  to  the  hope 
either  of  pleasing  or  instructing.  They  have  often  no  other  task 
than  to  lay  two  books  before  them,  out  of  which  they  compile  a 
third,  without  any  new  materials  of  their  own,  and  with  very 
little  application  of  judgment  to  those  which  former  authors 
have  supplied. 

That  all  compilations  are  useless  I  do  not  assert.  Particles  of 
science  are  often  very  widely  scattered.  Writers  of  extensive 
comprehension  have  incidental  remarks  upon  topics  very  re- 
mote from  the  principal  subject,  which  are  often  more  valuable 
than  formal  treatises,  and  which  yet  are  not  known  because  they 
are  not  promised  in  the  title.  He  that  collects  those  under 
proper  heads  is  very  laudably  employed,  for,  though  he  exerts 
no  great  abilities  in  the  work,  he  facilitates  the  progress  of 
others,  and,  by  making  that  easy  of  attainment  which  is  already 
written,  may  give  some  mind,  more  vigorous  or  more  adventu- 
rous than  his  own,  leisure  for  new  thoughts  and  original  designs. 

But  the  collections  poured  lately  from  the  press  have  been 
seldom  made  at  any  great  expense  of  time  or  inquiry,  and  there- 
fore only  serve  to  distract  choice  without  supplying  any  real 
want.  It  is  observed  that  "a  corrupt  society  has  many  laws," 
and  I  know  not  whether  it  is  not  equally  true  that  an  ignorant 
age  has  many  books.  When  the  treasures  of  ancient  knowledge 
lie  unexamined,  and  original  authors  are  neglected  and  for- 
gotten, compilers  and  plagiaries  are  encouraged,  who  give  us 
again  what  we  had  before,  and  grow  great  by  setting  before  us 
what  our  own  sloth  had  hidden  from  our  view. 

Yet  are  not  even  these  writers  to  be  indiscriminately  censured 
and  rejected.  Truth,  like  beauty,  varies  its  fashions,  and  is  best 
recommended  by  different  dresses  to  different  minds;  and  he 
that  recalls  the  attention  of  mankind  to  any  part  of  learning 
which  time  has  left  behind  it,  may  be  truly  said  to  advance  the 
literature  of  his  own  age.  As  the  rrianners  of  nations  vary,  new 
topics  of  persuasion  become  necessary,  and  new  combinations 
of  imagery  are  produced ;  and  he  that  can  accommodate  himself 
to  the  reigning  taste  may  always  have  readers  who  perhaps 
would  not  have  looked  upon  better  performances.  To  exact  of 
every  man  who  writes  that  he  should  say  something  new  would 
be  to  reduce  authors  to  a  small  number;  to  oblige  the  most  fer- 
tile genius  to  say  only  what  is  new  would  be  to  contract  his  vol- 


THE  IDLER  367 

limes  to  a  few  pages.  Yet  surely  there  ought  to  be  some  bounds 
to  repetition.  Libraries  ought  no  more  to  be  heaped  forever 
with  the  same  thoughts  differently  expressed,  than  with  the 
same  books  differently  decorated. 

The  good  or  evil  which  these  secondary  writers  produce  is  sel- 
dom of  any  long  duration.  As  they  owe  their  existence  to  change 
of  fashion,  they  commonly  disappear  when  a  new  fashion  be- 
comes prevalent.  The  authors  that  in  any  nation  last  from  age 
to  age  are  few,  because  there  are  very  few  that  have  any  other 
claim  to  notice  than  that  they  catch  hold  on  present  curiosity, 
and  gratify  some  accidental  desire,  or  produce  some  temporary 
conveniency. 

But,  however  the  writers  of  the  day  may  despair  of  future 
fame,  they  ought  at  least  to  forbear  any  present  mischief. 
Though  they  cannot  arrive  at  eminent  heights  of  excellence, 
they  might  keep  themselves  harmless.  They  might  take  care 
to  inform  themselves  before  they  attempt  to  inform  others, 
and  exert  the  little  influence  which  they  have  for  honest  pur- 
poses. But  such  is  the  present  state  of  our  literature,  that  the 
ancient  sage  who  thought  "a  great  book  a  great  evil"  would 
now  think  the  multitude  of  books  a  multitude  of  evils.  He  would 
consider  a  bulky  writer  who  engrossed  a  year,  and  a  swarm  of 
pamphleteers  who  stole  each  an  hour,  as  equal  wasters  of  human 
life,  and  would  make  no  other  difference  between  them  than 
between  a  beast  of  prey  and  a  flight  of  locusts. 

No.  88.  SATURDAY,  DECEMBER  22,  1759 
When  the  philosophers  of  the  last  age  were  first  congregated 
into  the  Royal  Society,  great  expectations  were  raised  of  the 
sudden  progress  of  useful  arts;  the  tune  was  supposed  to  be 
near,  when  engines  should  turn  by  a  perpetual  motion,  and 
health  be  secured  by  the  universal  medicine;  when  learning 
should  be  facilitated  by  a  real  character,  and  commerce  ex- 
tended by  ships  which  could  reach  their  ports  in  defiance  of  the 
tempest. 

But  improvement  is  naturally  slow.  The  Society  met  and 
parted  without  any  visible  diminution  of  the  miseries  of  life. 
The  gout  and  stone  were  still  painful,  the  ground  that  was  not 
plowed  brought  no  harvest,  and  neither  oranges  nor  grapes 
would  grow  upon  the  hawthorn.  At  lasi,  those  who  were  dis- 


368  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

appointed  began  to  be  angry;  those  likewise  who  hated  innova- 
tion were  glad  to  gain  an  opportunity  of  ridiculing  men  who  had 
depreciated,  perhaps  with  too  much  arrogance,  the  knowledge 
of  antiquity.  And  it  appears  from  some  of  their  earliest  apolo- 
gies, that  the  philosophers  felt  with  great  sensibility  the  un- 
welcome importunities  of  those  who  were  daily  asking,  "What 
have  ye  done?  " 

The  truth  is,  that  little  had  been  done  compared  with  what 
fame  had  been  suffered  to  promise;  and  the  question  could  only 
be  answered  by  general  apologies  and  by  new  hopes,  which, 
when  they  were  frustrated,  gave  a  new  occasion  to  the  same 
vexatious  inquiry. 

This  fatal  question  has  disturbed  the  quiet  of  many  other 
minds.  He  that  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  too  strictly  inquires 
what  he  has  done,  can  very  seldom  receive  from  his  own  heart 
such  an  account  as  will  give  him  satisfaction. 

We  do  not,  indeed,  so  often  disappoint  others  as  ourselves. 
We  not  only  think  more  highly  than  others  of  our  own  abilities, 
but  allow  ourselves  to  form  hopes  which  we  never  communicate, 
and  please  our  thoughts  with  employments  which  none  ever 
will  allot  us,  and  with  elevations  to  which  we  are  never  expected 
to  rise ;  and  when  our  days  and  years  have  passed  away  in  com- 
mon business  or  common  amusements,  and  we  find  at  last  that 
we  have  suffered  our  purposes  to  sleep  till  the  time  of  action 
is  past,  we  are  reproached  only  by  our  own  reflections.  Neither 
our  friends  nor  our  enemies  wonder  that  we  live  and  die  like 
the  rest  of  mankind;  that  we  live  without  notice,  and  die  with- 
out memorial;  they  know  not  what  task  we  had  proposed,  and 
therefore  cannot  discern  whether  it  is  finished. 

He  that  compares  what  he  has  done  with  what  he  has  left  un- 
done, will  feel  the  effect  which  must  always  follow  the  compari- 
son of  imagination  with  reality;  he  will  look  with  contempt  on 
his  own  unimportance,  and  wonder  to  what  purpose  he  came 
into  the  world ;  he  will  repine  that  he  shall  leave  behind  him  no 
evidence  of  his  having  been,  that  he  has  added  nothing  to  the 
system  of  life,  but  has  glided  from  youth  to  age  among  the 
crowd,  without  any  effort  for  distinction. 

Man  is  seldom  willing  to  let  fall  the  opinion  of  his  own 
dignity,  or  to  believe  that  he  does  little  only  because  every 
individual  is  a  very  little  being.  He  is  better  content  to  want 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  369 

diligence  than  power,  and  sooner  confesses  the  depravity  of  his 
will  than  the  imbecility  of  his  nature. 

From  this  mistaken  notion  of  human  greatness  it  proceeds 
that  many  who  pretend  to  have  made  great  advances  in  wisdom 
so  loudly  declare  that  they  despise  themselves.  If  I  had  ever 
found  any  of  the  self-contemners  much  irritated  or  pained  by 
the  consciousness  of  their  meanness,  I  should  have  given  them 
consolation  by  observing  that  a  little  more  than  nothing  is  as 
much  as  can  be  expected  from  a  being  who,  with  respect  to  the 
multitudes  about  him,  is  himself  little  more  than  nothing. 
Every  man  is  obliged  by  the  Supreme  Master  of  the  universe  to 
improve  all  the  opportunities  of  good  which  are  afforded  him, 
and  to  keep  in  continual  activity  such  abilities  as  are  bestowed 
upon  him.  But  he  has  no  reason  to  repine,  though  his  abilities 
are  small  and  his  opportunities  few.  He  that  has  improved  the 
virtue,  or  advanced  the  happiness,  of  one  fellow-creature,  —  he 
that  has  ascertained  a  single  moral  proposition,  or  added  one 
useful  experiment  to  natural  knowledge,  maybe  contented  with 
his  own  performance,  and,  with  respect  to  mortals  like  himself, 
may  demand,  like  Augustus,  to  be  dismissed  at  his  departure 
with  applause. 

PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE 

1765 

[In  1745  Johnson  published  "Proposals  for  a  New  Edition  of  Shake- 
speare," and  again  (having  laid  aside  the  plan  in  the  meantime)  in  1756. 
The  completed  work  appeared  in  October,  1765.  The  Preface  includes  some 
of  Johnson's  most  eloquent  prose;  historically,  his  attack  on  the  doctrine 
of  the  "unities"  is  of  especial  significance.  The  passages  here  reprinted 
are  from  the  early  portion,  and  follow  the  revised  text  of  1777,  as  given 
by  Mr.  Nichol  Smith  in  his  Eighteenth  Century  Essays  on  Shakespeare.} 

.  .  .  THE  poet  of  whose  works  I  have  undertaken  the  revision 
may  now  begin  to  assume  the  dignity  of  an  ancient,  and  claim  the 
privilege  of  an  established  fame  and  prescriptive  veneration.  He 
has  long  outlived  his  century,  the  term  commonly  fixed  as  the 
test  of  literary  merit.  Whatever  advantages  he  might  once  de- 
rive from  personal  allusions,  local  customs,  or  temporary  opin- 
ions, have  for  many  years  been  lost;  and  every  topic  of  merri- 
ment, or  motive  of  sorrow,  which  the  modes  of  artificial  life 


370  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

afforded  him,  now  only  obscure  the  scenes  which  they  once  il- 
luminated. The  effects  of  favor  and  competition  are  at  an  end; 
the  tradition  of  his  friendships  and  his  enmities  has  perished; 
his  works  support  no  opinion  with  arguments,  nor  supply  any 
faction  with  invectives;  they  can  neither  indulge  vanity  nor 
gratify  malignity;  but  are  read  without  any  other  reason  than 
the  desire  of  pleasure,  and  are  therefore  praised  only  as  pleasure 
is  obtained.  Yet,  thus  unassisted  by  interest  or  passion,  they 
have  passed  through  variations  of  taste  and  changes  of  man- 
ners, and,  as  they  devolved  from  one  generation  to  another, 
have  received  new  honors  at  every  transmission. 

But  because  human  judgment,  though  it  be  gradually  gain- 
ing upon  certainty,  never  becomes  infallible,  and  approbation, 
though  long  continued,  may  yet  be  only  the  approbation  of 
prejudice  or  fashion,  it  is  proper  to  inquire  by  what  peculiari- 
ties of  excellence  Shakespeare  has  gained  and  kept  the  favor  of 
his  countrymen. 

Nothing  can  please  many,  and  please  long,  but  just  represen- 
tations of  general  nature.  Particular  manners  can  be  known  to 
few,  and  therefore  few  only  can  judge  how  nearly  they  are 
copied.  The  irregular  combinations  of  fanciful  invention  may 
delight  awhile,  by  that  novelty  of  which  the  common  satiety  of 
life  sends  us  all  in  quest;  but  the  pleasures  of  sudden  wonder  are 
soon  exhausted,  and  the  mind  can  only  repose  on  the  stability 
of  truth. 

Shakespeare  is,  above  all  writers,  —  at  least  above  all  mod- 
ern writers,  —  the  poet  of  nature;  the  poet  that  holds  up  to  his 
readers  a  faithful  mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  His  characters 
are  not  modified  by  the  customs  of  particular  places,  unprac- 
ticed  by  the  rest  of  the  world;  by  the  peculiarities  of  studies  or 
professions,  which  can  operate  but  upon  small  numbers;  or  by 
the  accidents  of  transient  fashions  or  temporary  opinions :  they 
are  the  genuine  progeny  of  common  humanity,  such  as  the 
world  will  always  supply,  and  observation  will  always  find.  His 
persons  act  and  speak  by  the  influence  of  those  general  passions 
and  principles  by  which  all  minds  are  agitated,  and  the  whole 
system  of  life  is  continued  in  motion.  In  the  writings  of  other 
poets  a  character  is  too  often  an  individual;  in  those  of  Shake- 
speare it  is  commonly  a  species. 

It  is  from  this  wide  extension  of  design  that  so  much  instruc- 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  372 

tion  is  derived.  It  is  this  which  fills  the  plays  of  Shakespeare 
with  practical  axioms  and  domestic  wisdom.  It  was  said  of 
Euripides  that  every  verse  was  a  precept;  and  it  may  be  said  of 
Shakespeare  that  from  his  works  may  be  collected  a  system  of 
civil  and  economical  prudence.  Yet  his  real  power  is  not  shown 
in  the  splendor  of  particular  passages,  but  by  the  progress  of  his 
fable  and  the  tenor  of  his  dialogue ;  and  he  that  tries  to  recom- 
mend him  by  select  quotations  will  succeed  like  the  pedant  in 
Hierocles,  who,  when  he  offered  his  house  to  sale,  carried  a  brick 
in  his  pocket  as  a  specimen. 

It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much  Shakespeare  excels 
in  accommodating  his  sentiments  to  real  life,  but  by  comparing 
him  with  other  authors.  It  was  observed  of  the  ancient  schools 
of  declamation,  that  the  more  diligently  they  were  frequented, 
the  more  was  the  student  disqualified  for  the  world,  because  he 
found  nothing  there  which  he  should  ever  meet  in  any  other 
place.  The  same  remark  may  be  applied  to  every  stage  but  that 
of  Shakespeare.  The  theatre,  when  it  is  under  any  other  direc- 
tion, is  peopled  by  such  characters  as  were  never  seen,  convers- 
ing in  a  language  which  was  never  heard,  upon  topics  which 
will  never  arise  in  the  commerce  of  mankind.  But  the  dialogue 
of  this  author  is  often  so  evidently  determined  by  the  incident 
which  produces  it,  and  is  pursued  with  so  much  ease  and  sim- 
plicity, that  it  seems  scarcely  to  claim  the  merit  of  fiction,  but 
to  have  been  gleaned  by  diligent  selection  out  of  common  con- 
versation and  common  occurrences. 

Upon  every  other  stage  the  universal  agent  is  love,  by  whose 
power  all  good  and  evil  is  distributed,  and  every  action  quick- 
ened or  retarded.  To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a  rival  into  the 
fable;  to  entangle  them  in  contradictory  obligations,  perplex 
them  with  oppositions  of  interest,  and  harass  them  with  vio- 
lence of  desires  inconsistent  with  each  other;  to  make  them  meet 
in  rapture,  and  part  in  agony;  to  fill  their  mouths  with  hyper- 
bolical joy  and  outrageous  sorrow;  to  distress  them  as  nothing 
human  ever  was  distressed ;  to  deliver  them  as  nothing  human 
ever  was  delivered — is  the  business  of  a  modern  dramatist.  For 
this,  probability  is  violated,  life  is  misrepresented,  and  language 
is  depraved.  But  love  is  only  one  of  many  passions;  and  as  it 
has  no  great  influence  upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little  operation 
in  the  dramas  of  a  poet  who  caught  his  ideas  from  the  living 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

world,  and  exhibited  only  what  he  saw  before  him.  He  knew 
that  any  other  passion,  as  it  was  regular  or  exorbitant,  was  a 
cause  of  happiness  or  calamity. 

Characters  thus  ample  and  general  were  not  easily  discrimi- 
nated and  preserved,  yet  perhaps  no  poet  ever  kept  his  person- 
ages more  distinct  from  each  other.  I  will  not  say,  with  Pope, 
that  every  speech  may  be  assigned  to  the  proper  speaker,  be- 
cause many  speeches  there  are  which  have  nothing  characteris- 
tical;  but,  perhaps,  though  some  may  be  equally  adapted  to 
every  person,  it  will  be  difficult  to  find  that  any  can  be  properly 
transferred  from  the  present  possessor  to  another  claimant. 
The  choice  is  right,  when  there  is  reason  for  choice. 

Other  dramatists  can  only  gain  attention  by  hyperbolical  or 
aggravated  characters,  by  fabulous  and  unexampled  excellence 
or  depravity,  as  the  writers  of  barbarous  romances  invigorated 
the  reader  by  a  giant  and  a  dwarf ;  and  he  that  should  form  his 
expectations  of  human  affairs  from  the  play,  or  from  the  tale, 
would  be  equally  deceived.  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes;  his 
scenes  are  occupied  only  by  men,  who  act  and  speak  as  the 
reader  thinks  that  he  should  himself  have  spoken  or  acted  on 
the  same  occasion;  even  where  the  agency  is  supernatural,  the 
dialogue  is  level  with  life.  Other  writers  disguise  the  most  nat- 
ural passions  and  most  frequent  incidents,  so  that  he  who  con- 
templates them  in  the  book  will  not  know  them  in  the  world. 
Shakespeare  approximates  the  remote,  and  familiarizes  the 
wonderful;  the  event  which  he  represents  will  not  happen,  but, 
if  it  were  possible,  its  effects  would  probably  be  such  as  he  has 
assigned ;  and  it  may  be  said  that  he  has  not  only  shown  human 
nature  as  it  acts  in  real  exigencies,  but  as  it  would  be  found  in 
trials  tc  which  it  cannot  be  exposed. 

This,  therefore,  is  the  praise  of  Shakespeare,  that  his  drama  is 
the  mirror  of  life ;  that  he  who  has  mazed  his  imagination  in  fol- 
lowing the  phantoms  which  other  writers  raise  up  before  him, 
may  here  be  cured  of  his  delirious  ecstasies,  by  reading  human 
sentiments  in  human  language ;  by  scenes  from  which  a  hermit 
may  estimate  the  transactions  of  the  world,  and  a  confessor  pre- 
dict the  progress  of  the  passions. 

His  adherence  to  general  nature  has  exposed  him  to  the  cen- 
sure of  critics  who  form  their  judgments  on  narrower  principles. 
Dennis  and  Rymer  think  his  Romans  not  sufficiently  Roman, 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  373 

and  Voltaire  censures  his  kings  as  not  completely  royal.  Dennis 
is  offended  l  that  Menenius,  a  senator  of  Rome,  should  play  the 
buffoon;  and  Voltaire  perhaps  thinks  decency  violated  when  the 
Danish  usurper  is  represented  as  a  drunkard.  But  Shakespeare 
always  makes  nature  predominate  over  accident;  and,  if  he  pre- 
serves the  essential  character,  is  not  very  careful  of  distinctions 
superinduced  and  adventitious.  His  story  requires  Romans  or 
kings,  but  he  thinks  only  on  men.  He  knew  that  Rome,  like 
every  other  city,  had  men  of  all  dispositions;  and  wanting  a 
buffoon,  he  went  into  the  senate-house  for  that  which  the  sen- 
ate-house would  certainly  have  afforded  him.  He  was  inclined 
to  show  an  usurper  and  a  murderer  not  only  odious  but  despic- 
able; he  therefore  added  drunkenness  to  his  other  qualities, 
knowing  that  kings  love  wine  like  other  men,  and  that  wine 
exerts  its  natural  power  upon  kings.  These  are  the  petty  cavils 
of  petty  minds;  a  poet  overlooks  the  casual  distinction  of  coun- 
try and  condition,  as  a  painter,  satisfied  with  the  figure,  neg- 
lects the  drapery. 

The  censure  which  he  has  incurred  by  mixing  comic  and  tragic 
scenes,  as  it  extends  to  all  his  works,  deserves  more  considera- 
tion. Let  the  fact  be  first  stated,  and  then  examined. 

Shakespeare's  plays  are  not,  in  the  rigorous  and  critical  sense, 
either  tragedies  or  comedies,  but  compositions  of  a  distinct  kind, 
exhibiting  the  real  state  of  sublunary  nature,  which  partakes  of 
good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow,  mingled  with  endless  variety  of 
proportion  and  innumerable  modes  of  combination,  and  express- 
ing the  course  of  the  world,  in  which  the  loss  of  one  is  the  gain 
of  another;  in  which,  at  the  same  time,  the  reveler  is  hasting 
to  his  wine,  and  the  mourner  burying  his  friend  ;  in  which 
the  malignity  of  one  is  sometimes  defeated  by  the  frolic  of  an- 
other, and  many  mischiefs  and  many  benefits  are  done  and  hin- 
dered without  design. 

Out  of  this  chaos  of  mingled  purposes  and  casualties  the 
ancient  poets,  according  to  the  laws  which  custom  had  pre- 
scribed, selected  some  the  crimes  of  men,  and  some  their  ab- 
surdities; some  the  momentous  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  some  the 
lighter  occurrences;  some  the  terrors  of  distress,  and  some  the 
gayeties  of  prosperity.  Thus  rose  the  two  modes  of  imitation, 
known  by  the  names  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  compositions  in- 

1  See  page  212,  above. 


374  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

tended  to  promote  different  ends  by  contrary  means,  and  con- 
sidered as  so  little  allied,  that  I  do  not  recollect  among  the 
Greeks  or  Romans  a  single  writer  who  attempted  both. 

Shakespeare  has  united  the  powers  of  exciting  laughter  and 
sorrow  not  only  in  one  mind,  but  in  one  composition.  Almost 
all  his  plays  are  divided  between  serious  and  ludicrous  charac- 
ters, and,  in  the  successive  evolutions  of  the  design,  sometimes 
produce  seriousness  and  sorrow,  and  sometimes  levity  and 
laughter. 

That  this  is  a  practice  contrary  to  the  rules  of  criticism  will 
be  readily  allowed ;  but  there  is  always  an  appeal  open  from  crit- 
icism to  nature.  The  end  of  writing  is  to  instruct;  the  end  of 
poetry  is  to  instruct  by  pleasing.  That  the  mingled  drama  may 
convey  all  the  instruction  of  tragedy  or  comedy  cannot  be  de- 
nied, because  it  includes  both  in  its  alternations  of  exhibition, 
and  approaches  nearer  than  either  to  the  appearance  of  life,  by 
showing  how  great  machinations  and  slender  designs  may  pro- 
mote or  obviate  one  another,  and  the  high  and  low  cooperate 
in  the  general  system  by  unavoidable  concatenation. 

It  is  objected  that  by  this  change  of  scenes  the  passions  are 
interrupted  in  their  progression,  and  that  the  principal  event, 
being  not  advanced  by  a  due  gradation  of  preparatory  inci- 
dents, wants  at  last  the  power  to  move  which  constitutes  the 
perfection  of  dramatic  poetry.  This  reasoning  is  so  specious 
that  it  is  received  as  true  even  by  those  who  in  daily  experience 
feel  it  to  be  false.  The  interchanges  of  mingled  scenes  seldom 
fail  to  produce  the  intended  vicissitudes  of  passion.  Fiction 
cannot  move  so  much  but  that  the  attention  may  be  easily 
transferred;  and  though  it  must  be  allowed  that  pleasing  melan- 
choly be  sometimes  interrupted  by  unwelcome  levity,  yet  let  it 
be  considered  likewise  that  melancholy  is  often  not  pleasing, 
and  that  the  disturbance  of  one  man  may  be  the  relief  of  an- 
other; that  different  auditors  have  different  habitudes ;  and  that 
upon  the  whole  all  pleasure  consists  in  variety. 

The  players  who  in  their  edition  divided  our  author's  works 
into  comedies,  histories,  and  tragedies,  seem  not  to  have  dis- 
tinguished the  three  kinds  by  any  very  exact  or  definite  ideas. 
An  action  which  ended  happily  to  the  principal  persons,  how- 
ever serious  or  distressful  through  its  intermediate  incidents,  in 
their  opinion  constituted  a  comedy.  This  idea  of  a  comedy  con- 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  375 

tinued  long  amongst  us;  and  .plays  were  written  which,  by 
changing  the  catastrophe,  were  tragedies  to-day  and  comedies 
to-morrow.  Tragedy  was  not,  in  those  times,  a  poem  of  more 
general  dignity  or  elevation  than  comedy;  it  required  only  a 
calamitous  conclusion,  with  which  the  common  criticism  of 
that  age  was  satisfied,  whatever  lighter  pleasure  it  afforded  in 
its  progress.  History  was  a  series  of  actions,  with  no  other  than 
chronological  succession,  independent  on  each  other,  and  with- 
out any  tendency  to  introduce  and  regulate  the  conclusion.  It  is 
not  always  very  nicely  distinguished  from  tragedy.  There  is 
not  much  nearer  approach  to  unity  of  action  in  the  tragedy  of 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  than  in  the  history  of  Richard  the  Second. 
But  a  history  might  be  continued  through  many  plays;  as  it  had 
no  plan,  it  had  no  limits. 

Through  all  these  denominations  of  the  drama,  Shakespeare's 
mode  of  composition  is  the  same :  an  interchange  of  seriousness 
and  merriment,  by  which  the  mind  is  softened  at  one  tune,  and 
exhilarated  at  another.  But  whatever  be  his  purpose,  whether 
to  gladden  or  depress,  or  to  conduct  the  story,  without  vehem- 
ence of  emotion,  through  tracts  of  easy  and  familiar  dialogue, 
he  never  fails  to  attain  his  purpose.  As  he  commands  us,  we 
laugh  or  mourn,  or  sit  silent  with  quiet  expectation,  in  tran- 
quillity without  indifference. 

When  Shakespeare's  plan  is  understood,  most  of  the  criti- 
cisms of  Rymer  and  Voltaire  vanish  away.  The  play  of  Hamlet 
is  opened,  without  impropriety,  by  two  sentinels;  lago  bellows 
at  Brabantio's  window  without  injury  to  the  scheme  of  the 
play ,  though  in  terms  which  a  modern  audience  would  not  easily 
endure;  the  character  of  Polonius  is  seasonable  and  useful,  and 
the  grave-diggers  themselves  may  be  heard  with  applause. 

Shakespeare  engaged  in  dramatic  poetry  with  the  world  open 
before  him.  The  rules  of  the  ancients  were  yet  known  to  few; 
the  public  judgment  was  unformed;  he  had  no  example  of  such 
fame  as  might  force  him  upon  imitation,  nor  .critics  of  such 
authority  as  might  restrain  his  extravagance.  He  therefore  in- 
dulged his  natural  disposition;  and  his  disposition,  as  Rymer 
has  remarked,  led  him  to  comedy.  In  tragedy  he  often  writes, 
with  great  appearance  of  toil  and  study,  what  is  written  at  last 
with  little  felicity;  but  in  his  comic  scenes  he  seems  to  produce, 
without  labor,  what  no  labor  can  improve.  In  tragedy  he  is  al- 


376  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

ways  struggling  after  some  occasion  to  be  comic;  but  in  comedy 
beseems  to  repose,  or  to  luxuriate,  as  in  a  mode  of  thinking  con- 
genial to  his  nature.  In  his  tragic  scenes  there  is  always  some- 
thing wanting,  but  his  comedy  often  surpasses  expectation  or 
desire.  His  comedy  pleases  by  the  thoughts  and  the  language, 
and  his  tragedy  for  the  greater  part  by  incident  and  action. 
His  tragedy  seems  to  be  skill,  his  comedy  to  be  instinct. 

The  force  of  his  comic  scenes  has  suffered  little  diminution 
from  the  changes  made  by  a  century  and  a  half,  in  manners  or 
in  words.  As  his  personages  act  upon  principles  arising  from 
genuine  passion,  very  little  modified  by  particular  forms,  their 
pleasures  and  vexations  are  communicable  to  ail  times  and  to 
all  places;  they  are  natural,  and  therefore  durable.  The  adven- 
titious peculiarities  of  personal  habits  are  only  superficial  dyes, 
bright  and  pleasing  for  a  little  while,  yet  soon  fading  to  a  dim 
tinct,  without  any  remains  of  former  lustre;  but  the  discrimina- 
tions of  true  passion  are  the  colors  of  nature :  they  pervade  the 
whole  mass,  and  can  only  perish  with  the  body  that  exhibits 
them.  The  accidental  compositions  of  heterogeneous  modes  are 
dissolved  by  the  chance  which  combined  them,  but  the  uniform 
simplicity  of  primitive  qualities  neither  admits  increase  nor 
suffers  decay.  The  sand  heaped  by  one  flood  is  scattered  by  an- 
other, but  the  rock  always  continues  in  its  place.  The  stream 
of  time,  which  is  continually  washing  the  dissoluble  fabrics  of 
other  poets,  passes  without  injury  by  the  adamant  of  Shake- 
speare. 

If  there  be,  what  I  believe  there  is,  in  every  nation,  a  style 
which  never  becomes  obsolete,  —  a  certain  mode  of  phraseology 
so  consonant  and  congenial  to  the  analogy  and  principles  of  its 
respective  language,  as  to  remain  settled  and  unaltered,  — 
this  stye  is  probably  to  be  sought  in  the  common  intercourse  of 
life,  among  those  who  speak  only  to  be  understood,  without 
ambition  of  elegance.  The  polite  are  always  catching  modish 
innovations,  and  the  learned  depart  from  established  forms  of 
speech  in  hope  of  finding  or  making  better;  those  who  wish  for 
distinction  forsake  the  vulgar,  when  the  vulgar  is  right.  But 
there  is  a  conversation  above  grossness  and  below  refinement, 
where  propriety  resides,  and  where  this  great  poet  seems  to 
have  gathered  his  comic  dialogue.  He  is  therefore  more  agree- 
able to  the  ears  of  the  present  age  than  any  other  author  equally 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  377 

remote,  and,  among  his  other  excellencies,  deserves  to  be  stud- 
ied as  one  of  the  original  masters  of  our  language. 

These  observations  are  to  be  considered  not  as  unexception- 
ably  constant,  but  as  containing  general  and  predominant 
truth.  Shakespeare's  familiar  dialogue  is  affirmed  to  be  smooth 
and  clear,  yet  not  wholly  without  ruggedness  or  difficulty,  as  a 
country  may  be  eminently  fruitful,  though  it  has  spots  unfit  for 
cultivation.  His  characters  are  praised  as  natural,  though  their 
sentiments  are  sometimes  forced  and  their  actions  improbable, 
as  the  earth  upon  the  whole  is  spherical,  though  its  surface  is 
varied  with  protuberances  and  cavities. 

Shakespeare,  with  his  excellencies,  has  likewise  faults,  and 
faults  sufficient  to  obscure  and  overwhelm  any  other  merit.  I 
shall  show  them  in  the  proportion  in  which  they  appear  to  me, 
without  envious  malignity  or  superstitious  veneration.  No 
question  can  be  more  innocently  discussed  than  a  dead  poet's 
pretensions  to  renown,  and  little  regard  is  due  to  that  bigotry 
which  sets  candor l  higher  than  truth. 

His  first  defect  is  that  to  which  may  be  imputed  most  of  the 
evil  in  books  or  in  men.  He  sacrifices  virtue  to  convenience,  and 
is  so  much  more  careful  to  please  than  to  instruct,  that  he  seems 
to  write  without  any  moral  purpose.  From  his  writings,  indeed, 
a  system  of  social  duty  may  be  selected,  for  he  that  thinks  rea- 
sonably must  think  morally;  but  his  precepts  and  axioms  drop 
casually  from  him;  he  makes  no  just  distribution  of  good  or 
evil,  nor  is  always  careful  to  show  in  the  virtuous  a  disapproba- 
tion of  the  wicked.  He  carries  his  persons  indifferently  through 
right  and  wrong,  and  at  the  close  dismisses  them  without  further 
care,  and  leaves  their  examples  to  operate  by  chance.  This 
fault  the  barbarity  of  his  age  cannot  extenuate,  for  it  is  always 
a  writer's  duty  to  make  the  world  better,  and  justice  is  a  virtue 
independent  on  time  or  place. 

The  plots  are  often  so  loosely  formed  that  a  very  slight  con- 
sideration may  improve  them,  and  so  carelessly  pursued  that  he 
seems  not  always  fully  to  -comprehend  his  own  design.  He 
omits  opportunities  of  instructing  or  delighting,  which  the  train 
of  his  story  seems  to  force  upon  him,  and  apparently  rejects 
those  exhibitions  which  would  be  more  affecting,  for  the  sake  of 
those  which  are  more  easy. 

1  That  is,  kindness. 


378  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

It  maybe  observed  that  in  many  of  his  plays  the  latter  part  is 
evidently  neglected.  When  he  found  himself  near  the  end  of  his 
work,  and  in  view  of  his  reward,  he  shortened  the  labor  to  snatch 
the  profit.  He  therefore  remits  his  efforts  where  he  should  most 
vigorously  exert  them,  and  his  catastrophe  is  improbably  pro- 
duced or  imperfectly  represented. 

He  had  no  regard  to  distinction  of  time  or  place,  but  gives  to 
one  age  or  nation,  without  scruple,  the  customs,  institutions, 
and  opinions  of  another,  at  the  expense  not  only  of  likelihood 
but  of  possibility.  These  faults  Pope  has  endeavored,  with  more 
zeal  than  judgment,  to  transfer  to  his  imagined  interpolators. 
We  need  not  wonder  to  find  Hector  quoting  Aristotle,  when  we 
see  the  loves  of  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  combined  with  the 
Gothic  mythology  of  fairies.  Shakespeare,  indeed,  was  not  the 
only  violator  of  chronology,  for  in  the  same  age  Sidney,  who 
wanted  not  the  advantages  of  learning,  has,  in  his  Arcadia, 
confounded  the  pastoral  with  the  feudal  times,  —  the  days  of 
innocence,  quiet,  and  security  with  those  of  turbulence,  vio- 
lence, and  adventure. 

In  his  comic  scenes  he  is  seldom  very  successful  when  he  en- 
gages his  characters  in  reciprocations  of  smartness  and  con- 
tests of  sarcasm.  Their  jests  are  commonly  gross,  and  their 
pleasantry  licentious;  neither  his  gentlemen  nor  his  ladies  have 
much  delicacy,  nor  are  sufficiently  distinguished  from  his 
clowns  by  any  appearance  of  refined  manners.  Whether  he 
represented  the  real  conversation  of  his  time  is  not  easy  to  de- 
termine; the  reign  of  Elizabeth  is  commonly  supposed  to  have 
been  a  time  of  stateliness,  formality,  and  reserve,  yet  perhaps 
the  relaxations  of  that  severity  were  not  very  elegant.  There 
must,  however,  have  been  always  some  modes  of  gayety  pre- 
ferable to  others,  and  a  writer  ought  to  choose  the  best. 

In  tragedy  his  performance  seems  constantly  to  be  worse  as 
his  labor  is  more.  The  effusions  of  passion,  which  exigence  forces 
out,  are  for  the  most  part  striking  and  energetic;  but  whenever 
he  solicits  his  invention,  or  strains  his  faculties,  the  offspring  of 
his  throes  is  tumor,  meanness,  tediousness,  and  obscurity. 

In  narration  he  affects  a  disproportionate  pomp  of  diction 
and  a  wearisome  train  of  circumlocution,  and  tells  the  incident 
imperfectly,  in  many  words,  which  might  have  been  more 
plainly  delivered  in  few.  Narration  in  dramatic  poetry  is  natu- 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  379 

rally  tedious,  as  it  is  unanimated  and  inactive,  and  obstructs 
the  progress  of  the  action;  it  should  therefore  always  be  rapid, 
and  enlivened  by  frequent  interruption.  Shakespeare  found  it 
an  encumbrance,  and  instead  of  lightening  it  by  brevity,  en- 
deavored to  recommend  it  by  dignity  and  splendor. 

His  declamations  or  set  speeches  are  commonly  cold  and 
weak,  for  his  power  was  the  power  of  nature.  When  he  en- 
deavored, like  other  tragic  writers,  to  catch  opportunities  of 
amplification,  and,  instead  of  inquiring  what  the  occasion  de- 
manded, to  show  how  much  his  stores  of  knowledge  could  sup- 
ply, he  seldom  escapes  without  the  pity  or  resentment  of  his 
reader. 

It  is  incident  to  him  to  be  now  and  then  entangled  with  an 
unwieldy  sentiment,  which  he  cannot  well  express,  and  will  not 
reject.  He  struggles  with  it  a  while,  and,  if  it  continues  stub- 
born, comprises  it  in  words  such  as  occur,  and 'leaves  it  to  be 
disentangled  and  evolved  by  those  who  have  more  leisure  to 
bestow  upon  it. 

Not  that  always  where  the  language  is  intricate  the  thought 
is  subtle,  or  the  image  always  great  where  the  line  is  bulky.  The 
equality  of  words  to  things  is  very  often  neglected,  and  trivial 
sentiments  and  vulgar  ideas  disappoint  the  attention,  to  which 
they  are  recommended  by  sonorous  epithets  and  swelling 
figures. 

But  the  admirers  of  this  great  poet  have  most  reason  to  com- 
plain when  he  approaches  nearest  to  his  highest  excellence,  and 
seems  fully  resolved  to  sink  them  in  dejection,  and  mollify  them 
with  tender  emotions,  by  the  fall  of  greatness,  the  danger  of 
innocence,  or  the  crosses  of  love.  What  he  does  best,  he  soon 
ceases  to  do.  He  is  not  soft  and  pathetic  without  some  idle  con- 
ceit or  contemptible  equivocation.  He  no  sooner  begins  to 
move,  than  he  counteracts  himself;  and  terror  and  pity,  as  they 
are  rising  in  the  mind,  are  checked  and  blasted  by  sudden 
frigidity. 

A  quibble  is  to  Shakespeare  what  luminous  vapors  are  to  the 
traveler:  he  follows  it  at  all  adventures;  it  is  sure  to  lead  him 
out  of  his  way,  and  sure  to  engulf  him  in  the  mire.  It  has  some 
malignant  power  over  his  mind,  and  its  fascinations  are  irre- 
sistible. Whatever  be  the  dignity  or  profundity  of  his  disquisi- 
tion, whether  he  be  enlarging  knowledge  or  exalting  affection, 


380  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

whether  he  be  amusing  attention  with  incidents,  or  enchaining 
it  in  suspense,  —  let  but  a  quibble  spring  up  before  him,  and 
he  leaves  his  work  unfinished.  A  quibble  is  the  golden  apple  for 
which  he  will  always  turn  aside  from  his  career,  or  stoop  from 
his  elevation.  A  quibble,  poor  and  barren  as  it  is,  gave  him  such 
delight  that  he  was  content  to  purchase  it  by  the  sacrifice  of 
reason,  propriety,  and  truth.  A  quibble  was  to  him  the  fatal 
Cleopatra  for  which  he  lost  the  world,  and  was  content  to  lose  it. 

It  will  be  thought  strange  that,  in  enumerating  the  defects  of 
this  writer,  I  have  not  yet  mentioned  his  neglect  of  the  unities, 
—  his  violation  of  those  laws  which  have  been  instituted  and 
established  by  the  joint  authority  of  poets  and  critics. 

For  his  other  deviations  from  the  art  of  writing  I  resign  him 
to  critical  justice,  without  making  any  other  demand  in  his 
favor  than  that  which  must  be  indulged  to  all  human  excel- 
lence, —  that  -his  virtues  be  rated  with  his  failings.  But  from 
the  censure  which  this  irregularity  may  bring  upon  him,  I  shall, 
with  due  reverence  to  that  learning  which  I  must  oppose,  ad- 
venture to  try  how  I  can  defend  him. 

His  histories,  being  neither  tragedies  nor  comedies,  are  not 
subject  to  any  of  their  laws.  Nothing  more  is  necessary  to  all 
the  praise  they  expect,  than  that  the  changes  of  action  be  so 
prepared  as  to  be  understood;  that  the  incidents  be  various  and 
affecting,  and  the  characters  consistent,  natural,  and  distinct. 
No  other  unity  is  intended,  and  therefore  none  is  to  be  sought. 

In  his  other  works  he  has  well  enough  preserved  the  unity  of 
action.  He  has  not,  indeed,  an  intrigue  regularly  perplexed  and 
regularly  unraveled;  he  does  not  endeavor  to  hide  his  design 
only  to  discover  it,  for  this  is  seldom  the  order  of  real  events, 
and  Shakespeare  is  the  poet  of  nature.  But  his  plan  has  com- 
monly what  Aristotle  requires,  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end;  one  event  is  concatenated  with  another,  and  the  conclu- 
sion follows  by  easy  consequence.  There  are  perhaps  some  inci- 
dents that  might  be  spared,  as  in  other  poets  there  is  much  talk 
that  only  fills  up  time  upon  the  stage;  but  the  general  system 
makes  gradual  advances,  and  the  end  of  the  play  is  the  end  of 
expectation. 

To  the  unities  of  time  and  place  he  has  shown  no  regard ;  and 
perhaps  a  nearer  view  of  the  principles  on  which  they  stand 
will  diminish  their  value,  and  withdraw  from  them  the  venera- 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  38i 

tion  which,  from  the  time  of  Corneille,  they  have  very  generally 
received,  by  discovering  that  they  have  given  more  trouble  to 
the  poet  than  pleasure  to  the  auditor. 

The  necessity  of  observing  the  unities  of  time  and  place  arises 
from  the  supposed  necessity  of  making  the  drama  credible.  The 
critics  hold  it  impossible  that  an  action  of  months  or  years  can 
be  possibly  believed  to  pass  in  three  hours;  or  that  the  spectator 
can  suppose  himself  to  sit  in  the  theatre  while  ambassadors  go 
and  return  between  distant  kings,  while  armies  are  levied  and 
towns  besieged,  while  an  exile  wanders  and  returns,  or  till  he 
whom  they  saw  courting  his  mistress  shall  lament  the  untimely 
fall  of  his  son.  The  mind  revolts  from  evident  falsehood,  and 
fiction  loses  its  force  when  it  departs  from  the  resemblance  of 
reality. 

From  the  narrow  limitation  of  time  necessarily  arises  the  con- 
traction of  place.  The  spectator  who  knows  that  he  saw  the 
first  act  at  Alexandria  cannot  suppose  that  he  sees  the  next  at 
Rome,  at  a  distance  to  which  not  the  dragons  of  Medea  could, 
in  so  short  a  time,  have  transported  him.  He  knows  with  cer- 
tainty that  he  has  not  changed  his  place,  and  he  knows  that 
place  cannot  change  itself,  —  that  what  was  a  house  cannot 
become  a  plain ;  that  what  was  Thebes  can  never  be  Persepolis. 

Such  is  the  triumphant  language  with  which  a  critic  exults 
over  the  misery  of  an  irregular  poet,  and  exults  commonly  with- 
out resistance  or  reply.  It  is  time,  therefore,  to  tell  him,  by  the 
authority  of  Shakespeare,  that  he  assumes  as  an  unquestionable 
principle  a  position  which,  while  his  breath  is  forming  it  into 
words,  his  understanding  pronounces  to  be  false.  It  is  false  that 
any  representation  is  mistaken  for  reality;  that  any  dramatic 
fable  in  its  materiality  was  ever  credible,  or  for  a  single  moment 
was  ever  credited. 

The  objection  arising  from  the  impossibility  of  passing  the 
first  hour  at  Alexandria,  and  the  next  at  Rome,  supposes  that 
when  the  play  opens  the  spectator  really  imagines  himself  at 
Alexandria,  and  believes  that  his  walk  to  the  theatre  has  been  a 
voyage  to  Egypt,  and  that  he  lives  in  the  days  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra.  Surely  he  that  imagines  this  may  imagine  more.  He 
that  can  take  the  stage  at  one  time  for  the  palace  of  the  Ptole- 
mies, may  take  it  in  half  an  hour  for  the  promontory  of  Actium. 
Delusion,  if  delusion  be  admitted,  has  no  certain  limitation. 


382  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

If  the  spectator  can  be  once  persuaded  that  his  old  acquain- 
tance are  Alexander  and  Caesar,  that  a  room  illuminated  with 
candles  is  the  plain  of  Pharsalia,  or  the  bank  of  Granicus,  he  is 
in  a  state  of  elevation  above  the  reach  of  reason  or  of  truth,  and 
from  the  heights  of  empyrean  poetry  may  despise  the  circum- 
scriptions of  terrestrial  nature.  There  is  no  reason  why  a  mind 
thus  wandering  in  ecstasy  should  count  the  clock,  or  why  an 
hour  should  not  be  a  century  in  that  calenture  of  the  brain  that 
can  make  the  stage  a  field. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  spectators  are  always  in  their  senses, 
and  know,  from  the  first  act  to  the  last,  that  the  stage  is  only  a 
stage  and  that  the  players  are  only  players.  They  come  to  hear 
a  certain  number  of  lines  recited  with  just  gesture  and  elegant 
modulation.  The  lines  relate  to  some  action,  and  an  action 
must  be  in  some  place;  but  the  different  actions  that  complete 
a  story  may  be  in  places  very  remote  from  each  other;  and 
where  is  the  absurdity  of  allowing  that  space  to  represent  first 
Athens,  andthen  Sicily,  which  was  always  known  to  be  neither 
Sicily  nor  Athens,  but  a  modern  theatre? 

By  supposition,  as  place  is  introduced,  time  may  be  extended. 
The  time  required  by  the  fable  elapses  for  the  most  part  be- 
tween the  acts;  for,  of  so  much  of  the  action  as  is  represented, 
the  real  and  poetical  duration  is  the  same.  If,  in  the  first  act, 
preparations  for  war  against  Mithridates  are  represented  to  be 
made  in  Rome,  the  event  of  the  war  may,  without  absurdity, 
be  represented,  in  the  catastrophe,  as  happening  in  Pontus. 
We  know  that  there  is  neither  war  nor  preparation  for  war; 
we  know  that  we  are  neither  in  Rome  nor  Pontus;  that  neither 
Mithridates  nor  Lucullus  are  before  us.  The  drama  exhibits 
successive  imitations  of  successive  actions;  and  why  may  not 
the  second  imitation  represent  an  action  that  happened  years 
after  the  first,  if  it  be  so  connected  with  it  that  nothing  but 
time  can  be  supposed  to  intervene?  Time  is,  of  all  modes  of  ex- 
istence, most  obsequious  to  the  imagination;  a  lapse  of  years  is 
as  easily  conceived  as  a  passage  of  hours.  In  contemplation  we 
easily  contract  the  time  of  real  actions,  and  therefore  willingly 
permit  it  to  be  contracted  when  we  only  see  their  imitation. 

It  will  be  asked  how  the  drama  moves,  if  it  is  not  credited. 
It  is  credited  with  all  the  credit  due  to  a  drama.  It  is  credited, 
whenever  it  moves,  as  a  just  picture  of  a  real  original;  as  repre- 


PREFACE  TO  SHAKESPEARE  383 

senting  to  the  auditor  what  he  would  himself  feel  if  he  were  to 
•  do  or  suffer  what  is  there  feigned  to  be  suffered  or  to  be  done. 
The  reflection  that  strikes  the  heart  is  not  that  the  evils  before 
us  are  real  evils,  but  that  they  are  evils  to  which  we  ourselves 
may  be  exposed.  If  there  be  any  fallacy,  it  is  not  that  we  fancy 
the  players,  but  that  we  fancy  ourselves  unhappy  for  a  mo- 
ment; but  we  rather  lament  the  possibility  than  suppose  the 
presence  of  misery,  as  a  mother  weeps  over  her  babe  when  she 
remembers  that  death  may  take  it  from  her.  The  delight  of 
tragedy  proceeds  from  our  consciousness  of  fiction ;  if  we  thought 
murders  and  treasons  real,  they  would  please  no  more. 

Imitations  produce  pain  or  pleasure,  not  because  they  are 
mistaken  for  realities,  but  because  they  bring  realities  to  mind. 
When  the  imagination  is  recreated  by  a  painted  landscape,  the 
trees  are  not  supposed  capable  to  give  us  shade,  or  the  fountains 
coolness;  but  we  consider  how  we  should  be  pleased  with  such 
fountains  playing  beside  us,  and  such  woods  waving  over  us. 
We  are  agitated  in  reading  the  history  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  yet 
no  man  takes  his  book  for  the  field  of  Aginccurt.  A  dramatic 
exhibition  is  a  book  recited  with  concomitants  that  increase 
or  diminish  its  effect.  Familiar  comedy  is  often  more  powerful 
on  the  theatre  than  in  the  page ;  imperial  tragedy  is  always  less. 
The  humor  of  Petruchio  may  be  heightened  by  grimace;  but 
what  voice  or  what  gesture  can  hope  to  add  dignity  or  force  to 
the  soliloquy  of  Cato? 

A  play  read  affects  the  mind  like  a  play  acted.  It  is  therefore 
evident  that  the  action  is  not  supposed  to  be  real;  and  it  fol- 
lows that  between  the  acts  a  longer  or  shorter  time  may  be  al- 
lowed to  pass,  and  that  no  more  account  of  space  or  duration 
is  to  be  taken  by  the  auditor  of  a  drama,  than  by  the  reader  of 
a  narrative,  before  whom  may  pass  in  an  hour  the  life  of  a  hero 
or  the  revolutions  of  an  empire. 

Whether  Shakespeare  knew  the  unities,  and  rejected  them 
by  design,  or  deviated  from  them  by  happy  ignorance,  it  is,  I 
think,  impossible  to  decide  and  useless  to  inquire.  We  may  rea- 
sonably suppose  that,  when  he  rose  to  notice,  he  did  not  want 
the  counsels  and  admonitions  of  scholars  and  critics,  and  that 
he  at  last  deliberately  persisted  in  a  practice  which  he  might 
have  begun  by  chance.  As  nothing  is  essential  to  the  fable  but 
unity  of  action,  and  as  the  unities  of  time  and  place  arise  evi- 


384  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

den tly  from  false  assumptions,  and,  by  circumscribing  the  extent 
of  the  drama,  lessen  its  variety,  I  cannot  think  it  much  to  be1 
lamented  that  they  were  not  known  by  him,  or  not  observed; 
nor,  if  such  another  poet  could  arise,  should  I  very  vehemently 
reproach  him  that  his  first  act  passed  at  Venice  and  his  next  in 
Cyprus.  Such  violations  of  rules  merely  positive  become  the 
comprehensive  genius  of  Shakespeare,  and  such  censures  are 
suitable  to  the  minute  and  slender  criticism  of  Voltaire. 

Non  usque  adeo  permiscuit  imis 
Longus  summa  dies,  ut  non,  si  wee  Metelli 
Serventur  leges,  malint  a  Ccesare  tolli.1 

Yet  when  I  speak  thus  slightly  of  dramatic  rules,  I  cannot 
but  recollect  how  much  wit  and  learning  may  be  produced 
against  me.  Before  such  authorities  I  am  afraid  to  stand;  not 
that  I  think  the  present  question  one  of  those  that  are  to  be 
decided  by  mere  authority,  but  because  it  is  to  be  suspected 
that  these  precepts  have  not  been  so  easily  received,  but  for 
better  reasons  than  I  have  yet  been  able  to  find.  The  result  of 
my  inquiries,  in  which  it  would  be  ludicrous  to  boast  of  impar- 
tiality, is,  that  the  unities  of  time  and  place  are  not  essential  to 
a  just  drama;  that,  though  they  may  sometimes  conduce  to 
pleasure,  they  are  always  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  nobler  beauties 
of  variety  and  instruction;  and  that  a  play  written  with  nice 
observation  of  critical  rules  is  to  be  contemplated  as  an  elabo- 
rate curiosity,  as  the  product  of  superfluous  and  ostentatious 
art,  by  which  is  shown  rather  what  is  possible  than  what  is 
necessary. 

He  that,  without  diminution  of  any  other  excellence,  shall 
preserve  all  the  unities  unbroken,  deserves  the  like  applause 
with  the  architect  who  shall  display  all  the  orders  of  architec- 
ture in  a  citadel,  without  any  deduction  from  its  strength.  But 
the  principal  beauty  of  a  citadel  is  to  exclude  the  enemy,  and 
the  greatest  graces  of  a  play  are  to  copy  nature  and  instruct 
life. 

Perhaps  what  I  have  here  not  dogmatically  but  deliber- 
ately written,  may  recall  the  principles  of  the  drama  to  a  new 
examination.  I  am  almost  frighted  at  my  own  temerity;  and, 
when  I  estimate  the  fame  and  the  strength  of  those  that 

1  "The  long  day  has  not  so  confused  high  things  with  low  that,  if  the  laws  were  to  be 
saved  by  Metellus,  they  would  not  prefer  to  be  destroyed  by  Caesar." 


LIVES   OF  THE  ENGLISH  POETS  385 

maintain  the  contrary  opinion,  am  ready  to  sink  down  in 
reverential  silence,  as  ^Eneas  withdrew  from  the  defense  of 
Troy,  when  he  saw  Neptune  shaking  the  wall,  and  Juno 
heading  the  besiegers.  .  .  . 

Voltaire  expresses  his  wonder  that  our  author's  extrava- 
gancies are  endured  by  a  nation  which  has  seen  the  tragedy  of 
Cato.  Let  him  be  answered  that  Addison  speaks  the  language 
of  poets,  and  Shakespeare  of  men.  We  find  in  Cato  innumerable 
beauties  which  enamor  us  of  its  author,  but  we  see  nothing 
that  acquaints  us  with  human  sentiments  or  human  actions. 
We  place  it  with  the  fairest  and  the  noblest  progeny  which 
judgment  propagates  by  conjunction  with  learning;  but  Othello 
is  the  vigorous  and  vivacious  offspring  of  observation  impreg- 
nated by  genius.  Cato  affords  a  splendid  exhibition  of  artificial 
and  fictitious  manners,  and  delivers  just  and  noble  sentiments, 
in  diction  easy,  elevated,  and  harmonious,  but  its  hopes  and 
fears  communicate  no  vibration  to  the  heart;  the  composition 
refers  us  only  to  the  writer.  We  pronounce  the  name  of  Cato, 
but  we  think  on  Addison. 

The  work  of  a  correct  and  regular  writer  is  a  garden  accu- 
rately formed  and  diligently  planted,  varied  with  shades  and 
scented  with  flowers.  The  composition  of  Shakespeare  is  a 
forest,  in  which  oaks  extend  their  branches,  and  pines  tower  in 
the  air,  interspersed  sometimes  with  weeds  and  brambles,  and 
sometimes  giving  shelter  to  myrtles  and  to  roses;  filling  the  eye 
with  awful  pomp,  and  gratifying  the  mind  with  endless  diver- 
sity. Other  poets  display  cabinets  of  precious  rarities,  minutely 
finished,  wrought  into  shape,  and  polished  into  brightness. 
Shakespeare  opens  a  mine  which  contains  gold  and  diamonds 
in  unexhaustible  plenty,  though  clouded  by  incrustations,  de- 
based by  impurities,  and  mingled  with  a  mass  of  meaner 
minerals.  .  .  . 

LIVES  OF  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 
1779-81 

[A  number  of  London  booksellers  produced  an  edition  of  The  English 
Poets  in  cooperation,  and  employed  Dr.  Johnson  to  write  brief  biographical 
introductions.  Four  volumes  were  published  in  1779,  six  more  in  1781. 
The  "Prefaces  Biographical  and  Critical"  were  separately  published  as 


386  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Lives  of  the  English  Poets.  The  poets  represented  were  chosen  by  the 
booksellers,  and  for  the  minor  ones  the  introductions  were  ordinarily  brief, 
but  in  important  cases  they  reached  large  proportions;  and  some  of  them 
—  notably  those  on  Dryden,  Addison,  and  Pope  —  represent  Johnson's 
ripest  and  most  permanently  vital  criticism.  That  on  Milton,  while  also 
admirable  in  parts,  is  distinguished  more  particularly  by  Johnson's  Tory 
prejudices  and  his  want  of  appreciation  for  certain  aspects  of  poetry.  The 
Lives  are  regularly  divided  into  a  biographical  and  a  critical  portion;  the 
following  extracts,  with  the  exception  of  the  first  on  Milton,  represent  only 
the  critical  portions.] 

MILTON 

.  .  .  His  theological  opinions  are  said  to  have  been  first  Cal- 
vmistical,  and  afterwards,  perhaps  when  he  began  to  hate  the 
Presbyterians,  to  have  tended  towards  Arminianism.  In  the 
mixed  questions  of  theology  and  government,  he  never  thinks 
that  he  can  recede  far  enough  from  popery  or  prelacy;  but  what 
Baudius  says  of  Erasmus  seems  applicable  to  him:  Magis  habuit 
quodfugeret  quam  quod  sequeretur.1  He  had  determined  rather 
what  to  condemn  than  what  to  approve.  He  has  not  associated 
himself  with  any  denomination  of  Protestants ;  we  know  rather 
what  he  was  not  than  what  he  was.  He  was  not  of  the  Church 
of  Rome;  he  was  not  of  the  Church  of  England.  To  be  of  no 
church  is  dangerous.  Religion,  of  which  the  rewards  are  dis- 
tant, and  which  is  animated  only  by  faith  and  hope,  will  glide 
by  degrees  out  of  the  mind,  unless  it  be  invigorated  and  reim- 
pressed  by  external  ordinances,  by  stated  calls  to  worship,  and 
the  salutary  influence  of  example.  Milton,  who  appears  to  have 
had  full  conviction  of  the  truth  of  Christianity,  and  to  have 
regarded  the  Holy  Scriptures  with  the  profoundest  veneration, 
to  have  been  untainted  by  any  heretical  peculiarity  of  opinion, 
and  to  have  lived  in  a  confirmed  belief  of  the  immediate  and 
occasional  agency  of  Providence,  yet  grew  old  without  any  visi- 
ble worship.  In  the  distribution  of  his  hours  there  was  no  hour 
of  prayer,  either  solitary  or  with  his  household;  omitting  public 
prayers,  he  omitted  all. 

Of  this  omission  the  reason  has  been  sought  upon  a  supposi- 
tion which  ought  never  to  be  made,  —  that  men  live  with  their 
own  approbation,  and  justify  their  conduct  to  themselves. 
Prayer  certainly  was  not  thought  superfluous  by  him  who  re- 
presents our  first  parents  as  praying  acceptably  in  the  state  of 

1  "He  rather  had  something  to  flee  than  something  to  follow." 


LIVES   OF  THE   ENGLISH  POETS  387 

innocence,  and  efficaciously  after  their  fall.  That  he  lived  with- 
out prayer  can  hardly  be  affirmed;  his  studies  and  meditations 
were  an  habitual  prayer.  The  neglect  of  it  in  his  family  was 
probably  a  fault  for  which  he  condemned  himself  and  which  he 
intended  to  correct,  but  that  death,  as  too  often  happens,  inter- 
cepted his  reformation. 

His  political  notions  were  those  of  an  acrimonious  and  surly 
republican,  for  which  it  is  not  known  that  he  gave  any  better 
reason  than  that  "  a  popular  government  was  the  most  frugal, 
for  the  trappings  of  monarchy  would  set  up  an  ordinary  com- 
monwealth." It  is  surely  very  shallow  policy  that  supposes 
money  to  be  the  chief  good;  and  even  this,  without  considering 
that  support  and  expense  of  a  court  is,  for  the  most  part,  only  a 
particular  kind  of  traffic,  by  which  money  is  circulated  with- 
out any  national  impoverishment.  Milton's  republicanism  was, 
I  am  afraid,  founded  in  an  envious  hatred  of  greatness,  and  a 
sullen  desire  of  independence ;  in  petulance  impatient  of  control, 
and  pride  disdainful  of  superiority.  He  hated  monarchs  in  the 
state  and  prelates  in  the  church,  for  he  hated  all  whom  he  was 
required  to  obey.  It  is  to  be  suspected  that  his  predominant 
desire  was  to  destroy  rather  than  establish,  and  that  he  felt  not 
so  much  the  love  of  liberty  as  repugnance  to  authority. 

It  has  been  observed  that  they  who  most  loudly  clamor  for 
liberty  do  not  most  liberally  grant  it.  What  we  know  of  Mil- 
ton's character  in  domestic  relations  is,  that  he  was  severe  and 
arbitrary.  His  family  consisted  of  women,  and  there  appears  in 
his  books  something  like  a  Turkish  contempt  of  females,  as  sub- 
ordinate and  inferior  beings.  That  his  own  daughters  might 
not  break  the  ranks,  he  suffered  them  to  be  depressed  by  a 
mean  and  penurious  education.  He  thought  women  made  only 
for  obedience,  and  man  only  for  rebellion.  .  .  . 

Those  who  admire  the  beauties  of  this  great  poet  sometimes 
force  their  own  judgment  into  false  approbations  of  his  little 
pieces,  and  prevail  upon  themselves  to  think  that  admirable 
which  is  only  singular.  All  that  short  compositions  can  com- 
monly attain  is  neatness  and  elegance.  Milton  never  learned 
the  art  of  doing  little  things  with  grace;  he  overlooked  the 
milder  excellence  of  suavity  and  softness;  he  was  a  lion  that 
had  no  skill  "  in  dandling  the  kid." 


388  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

One  of  the  poems  on  which  much  praise  has  been  bestowed  is 
Lycidas;  of  which  the  diction  is  harsh,  the  rhymes  uncertain, 
and  the  numbers  unpleasing.  What  beauty  there  is  we  must 
therefore  seek  in  the  sentiments  and  images.  It  is  not  to  be  con- 
sidered as  the  effusion  of  real  passion,  for  passion  runs  not  after 
remote  allusions  and  obscure  opinions.  Passion  plucks  no  ber- 
ries from  the  myrtle  and  ivy,  nor  calls  upon  Arethuse  and  Min- 
cius,  nor  tells  of  rough  satyrs  and  "  fauns  with  cloven  heel." 
Where  there  is  leisure  for  fiction,  there  is  little  grief.  In  this 
poem  there  is  no  nature,  for  there  is  no  truth;  there  is  no  art,  for 
there  is  nothing  new.  Its  form  is  that  of  a  pastoral,  —  easy, 
vulgar,  and  therefore  disgusting;  whatever  images  it  can  supply 
are  long  ago  exhausted;  and  its  inherent  improbability  always 
forces  dissatisfaction  on  the  mind.  When  Cowley  tells  of  Her- 
vey  that  they  studied  together,  it  is  easy  to  suppose  how  much 
he  must  miss  the  companion  of  his  labors  and  the  partner  of 
his  discoveries;  but  what  image  of  tenderness  can  be  excited  by 
these  lines? 

We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 

We  know  that  they  never  drove  afield,  and  that  they  had  no 
flocks  to  batten;  and,  though  it  be  allowed  that  the  representa- 
tion may  be  allegorical,  the  true  meaning  is  so  uncertain  and 
remote  that  it  is  never  sought,  because  it  cannot  be  known 
when  it  is  found. 

Among  the  flocks,  and  copses,  and  flowers,  appear  the  heathen 
deities:  Jove  and  Phoebus,  Neptune  and  ^olus,  with  a  long 
train  of  mythological  imagery,  such  as  a  college  easily  supplies. 
Nothing  can  less  display  knowledge,  or  less  exercise  invention, 
than  to  tell  how  a  shepherd  has  lost  his  companion,  and  must 
now  feed  his  flocks  alone,  without  any  judge  of  his  skill  in 
piping ;  and  how  one  god  asks  another  god  what  is  become  of 
Lycidas,  and  how  neither  god  can  tell.  He  who  thus  grieves  will 
excite  no  sympathy;  he  who  thus  praises  will  confer  no  honor. 

This  poem  has  yet  a  grosser  fault.  With  these  trifling  fictions 
are  mingled  the  most  awful  and  sacred  truths,  such  as  ought 
never  to  be  polluted  with  such  irreverend  combinations.  The 
shepherd  likewise  is  now  a  feeder  of  sheep,  and  afterwards  an 
ecclesiastical  pastor,  a  superintendent  of  a  Christian  flock, 


LIVES   OF   THE   ENGLISH   POETS  389 

Such  equivocations  are  always  unskillful;  but  here  they  are  in- 
decent, and  at  least  approach  to  impiety,  —  of  which,  however, 
I  believe  the  writer  not  to  have  been  conscious. 

Such  is  the  power  of  reputation  justly  acquired,  that  its  blaze 
drives  away  the  eye  from  nice  examination.  Surely  no  man 
could  have  fancied  that  he  read  Lycidas  with  pleasure,  had  he 
not  known  the  author. 

Of  the  two  pieces,  I? Allegro  and  II  Penseroso,  I  believe  opinion 
is  uniform;  every  man  that  reads  them  reads  them  with  pleas- 
ure. The  author's  design  is  not,  what  Theobald  has  remarked, 
merely  to  show  how  objects  derive  their  colors  from  the  mind, 
by  representing  the  operation  of  the  same  things  upon  the  gay 
and  the  melancholy  temper,  or  upon  the  same  man  as  he  is 
differently  disposed;  but  rather  how,  among  the  successive 
variety  of  appearances,  every  disposition  of  mind  takes  hold  on 
those  by  which  it  may  be  gratified.  .  .  . 

The  Sonnets  were  written  in  different  parts  of  Milton's  life, 
upon  different  occasions.  They  deserve  not  any  particular  criti- 
cism; for  of  the  best  it  can  only  be  said  that  they  are  not  bad, 
and  perhaps  only  the  eighth  and  the  twenty-first  are  truly  en- 
titled to  this  slender  commendation.  The  fabric  of  a  sonnet, 
however  adapted  to  the  Italian  language,  has  never  suc- 
ceeded in  ours,  which,  having  greater  variety  of  termination, 
requires  the  rhymes  to  be  often  changed. 

Those  little  pieces  may  be  dispatched  without  much  anxiety; 
a  greater  work  calls  for  greater  care.  I  am  now  to  examine 
Paradise  Lost,  a  poem  which,  considered  with  respect  to  design, 
may  claim  the  first  place,  and  with  respect  to  performance, 
the  second,  among  the  productions  of  the  human  mind. 

By  the  general  consent  of  critics  the  first  praise  of  genius  is 
due  to  the  writer  of  an  epic  poem,  as  it  requires  an  assemblage 
of  all  the  powers  which  are  singly  sufficient  for  other  composi- 
tions. Poetry  is  the  art  of  uniting  pleasure  with  truth,  by  call- 
ing imagination  to  the  help  of  reason.  Epic  poetry  undertakes 
to  teach  the  most  important  truths  by  the  most  pleasing  pre- 
cepts, and  therefore  relates  some  great  event  in  the  most  affect- 
ing manner.  History  must  supply  the  writer  with  the  rudiments 
of  narration,  which  he  must  improve  and  exalt  by  a  nobler  art, 
must  animate  by  dramatic  energy,  and  diversify  by  retrospec- 
tion and_anticipation.  Morality  must  teach  him  the  exact 


3QO  SAMUEL   JOHNSON 

bounds  and  different  shades  of  vice  and  virtue.  From  policy, 
and  the  practice  of  life,  he  has  to  learn  the  discriminations  of 
character  and  the  tendency  of  the  passions,  either  single  or 
combined;  and  physiology  must  supply  him  with  illustrations 
and  images.  To  put  these  materials  to  poetical  use,  is  required 
an  imagination  capable  of  painting  nature  and  realizing  fiction. 
Nor  is  he  yet  a  poet  till  he  has  attained  the  whole  extension  of 
his  language,  distinguished  all  the  delicacies  of  phrase,  and  all 
the  colors  of  words,  and  learned  to  adjust  their  different  sounds 
to  all  the  varieties  of  metrical  modulation. 

Bossu  is  of  opinion  that  the  poet's  first  work  is  to  find  a 
moral,  which  his  fable  is  afterwards  to  illustrate  and  establish. 
This  seems  to  have  been  the  process  only  of  Milton;  the  moral 
of  other  poems  is  incidental  and  consequent,  in  Milton's  only 
is  it  essential  and  intrinsic.  His  purpose  was  the  most  useful 
and  the  most  arduous,  "  to  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man," 
—  to  show  the  reasonableness  of  religion,  and  the  necessity  of 
obedience  to  the  divine  law.  To  convey  this  moral,  there  must 
be  a  fable,  a  narration  artfully  constructed,  so  as  to  excite  curi- 
osity and  surprise  expectation.  In  this  part  of  his  work  Milton 
must  be  confessed  to  have  equaled  every  other  poet.  He  has 
involved  in  his  account  of  the  Fall  of  Man  the  events  which 
preceded  and  those  that  were  to  follow  it;  he  has  interwoven 
the  whole  system  of  theology  with  such  propriety  that  every 
part  appears  to  be  necessary;  and  scarcely  any  recital  is  wished 
shorter  for  the  sake  of  quickening  the  progress  of  the  main 
action. 

The  subject  of  an  epic  poem  is  naturally  an  event  of  great 
importance.  That  of  Milton  is  not  the  destruction  of  a  city, 
the  conduct  of  a  colony,  or  the  foundation  of  an  empire.  His 
subject  is  the  fate  of  worlds,  the  revolutions  of  heaven  and 
earth;  rebellion  against  the  supreme  King,  raised  by  the  high- 
est order  of  created  beings;  the  overthrow  of  their  host,  and  the 
punishment  of  their  crime;  the  creation  of  a  new  race  of  reason- 
able creatures;  their  original  happiness  and  innocence,  their 
forfeiture  of  immortality,  and  their  restoration  to  hope  and 
peace. 

Great  events  can  be  hastened  or  retarded  only  by  persons  of 
elevated  dignity.  Before  the  greatness  displayed  in  Milton's 
poem,  all  other  greatness  shrinks  away.  The  weakest  of  his 


LIVES   OF   THE   ENGLISH   POETS  39I 

agents  are  the  highest  and  noblest  of  human  beings,  the  origi- 
nal parents  of  mankind;  with  whose  actions  the"  elements  con- 
sented; on  whose  rectitude,  or  deviation  of  will,  depended  the 
state  of  terrestrial  nature,  and  the  condition  of  all  the  future 
inhabitants  of  the  globe.  Of  the  other  agents  in  the  poem,  the 
chief  are  such  as  it  is  irreverence  to  name  on  slight  occasions. 
The  rest  were  lower  powers,  — 

of  which  the  least  could  wield 
Those  elements,  and  arm  him  with  the  force 
Of  all  their  regions;  — 

powers  which  only  the  control  of  Omnipotence  restrains  from 
laying  creation  waste,  and  filling  the  vast  expanse  of  space  with 
ruin  and  confusion.  To  display  the  motives  and  actions  of  be- 
ings thus  superior,  so  far  as  human  reason  can  examine  them, 
or  human  imagination  represent  them,  is  the  task  which  this 
mighty  poet  has  undertaken  and  performed.  .  .  . 

The  plan  of  Paradise  Lost  has  this  inconvenience,  that  it 
comprises  neither  human  actions  nor  human  manners.  The 
man  and  woman  who  act  and  suffer  are  in  a  state  which  no 
other  man  or  woman  can  ever  know.  The  reader  finds  no  trans- 
action in  which  he  can  be  engaged;  beholds  no  condition  in 
which  he  can  by  any  effort  of  imagination  place  himself;  he  has, 
therefore,  little  natural  curiosity  or  sympathy.  We  all,  indeed, 
feel  the  effects  of  Adam's  disobedience;  we  all  sin  like  Adam, 
and  like  him  must  bewail  our  offenses;  we  have  restless  and  in- 
sidious enemies  in  the  fallen  angels,  and  in  the  blessed  spirits  we 
have  guardians  and  friends;  in  the  redemption  of  mankind 
we  hope  to  be  included;  and  in  the  description  of  heaven 
and  hell  we  are  surely  interested,  as  we  are  all  to  reside 
hereafter  either  in  the  regions  of  horror  or  of  bliss.  But  these 
truths  are  too  important  to  be  new.  They  have  been  taught  to 
our  infancy;  they  have  mingled  with  our  solitary  thoughts  and 
familiar  conversations,  and  are  habitually  interwoven  with  the 
whole  texture  of  life.  Being,  therefore,  not  new,  they  raise  no 
unaccustomed  emotion  in  the  mind.  What  we  knew  before,  we 
cannot  learn;  what  is  not  unexpected  cannot  surprise.  .  .  .  The 
want  of  human  interest  is  always  felt.  Paradise  Lost  is  one  of 
the  books  which  the  reader  admires  and  lays  down,  and  forgets 
to  take  it  up  again.  None  ever  wished  it  longer  than  it  is.  Its 
perusal  is  a  duty  rather  than  a  pleasure.  We  read  Milton  for 


392  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

instruction,  retire  harassed  and  overburdened,  and  look  else- 
where for  recreation.  We  desert  our  master,  and  seek  for  com- 
panions. .  .  . 

The  highest  praise  of  genius  is  original  invention.  Milton 
cannot  be  said  to  have  contrived  the  structure  of  an  epic  poem, 
and  therefore  owes  reverence  to  that  vigor  and  amplitude  of 
mind  to  which  all  generations  must  be  indebted  for  the  art  of 
poetical  narration,  for  the  texture  of  the  fable,  the  variation  of 
incidents,  the  Interposition  of  dialogue,  and  all  the  stratagems 
that  surprise  and  enchain  attention.  But,  of  all  the  borrowers 
from  Homer,  Milton  is  perhaps  the  least  indebted.  He  was 
naturally  a  thinker  for  himself,  confident  of  his  own  abilities, 
and  disdainful  of  help  or  hindrance ;  he  did  not  refuse  admission 
to  the  thoughts  or  images  of  his  predecessors,  but  he  did  not 
seek  them.  From  his  contemporaries  he  neither  courted  nor 
received  support.  There  is  in  his  writings  nothing  by  which  the 
pride  of  other  authors  might  be  gratified,  or  favor  gained;  no 
exchange  of  praise  nor  solicitation  of  support.  His  great  works 
were  performed  under  discountenance,  and  in  blindness;  but 
difficulties  vanished  at  his  touch.  He  was  born  for  whatever 
is  arduous;  and  his  work  is  not  the  greatest  of  heroic  poems, 
only  because  it  is  not  the  first. 

DRYDEN 

Dryden  may  be  properly  considered  as  the  father  of  English 
criticism,  as  the  writer  who  first  taught  us  to  determine  upon 
principles  the  merit  of  composition.  Of  our  former  poets,  the 
greatest  dramatist  wrote  without  rules,  conducted  through  life 
and  nature  by  a  genius  that  rarely  misled  and  rarely  deserted 
him.  Of  the  rest,  those  who  knew  the  laws  of  propriety  had 
neglected  to  teach  them.  Two  Arts  of  English  Poetry  were 
written  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  by  Webb  and  Puttenham, 
from  which  something  might  be  learned,  and  a  few  hints  had 
been  given  by  Jonson  and  Cowley;  but  Dryden's  Essay  on 
Dramatic  Poetry  was  the  first  regular  and  valuable  treatise  on 
the  art  of  writing. 

He  who,  having  formed  his  opinions  in  the  present  age  of 
English  literature,  turns  back  to  peruse  this  dialogue,  will  not 
perhaps  find  much  increase  of  knowledge  or  much  novelty  of 
instruction.  But  he  is  to  remember  that  critical  principles  were 


LIVES   OF  THE    ENGLISH  POETS  393 

then  in  the  hands  of  a  few,  who  had  gathered  them  partly  from 
the  ancients,  and  partly  from  the  Italians  and  French.  The 
structure  of  dramatic  poems  was  not  then  generally  under- 
stood. Audiences  applauded  by  instinct,  and  poets  perhaps 
often  pleased  by  chance.  ...  To  judge  rightly  of  an  author, 
we  must  transport  ourselves  to  his  time,  and  examine  what 
were  the  wants  of  his  contemporaries,  and  what  were  his  means 
of  supplying  them.  That  which  is  easy  at  one  tune  was  difficult 
at  another.  Dryden  at  least  imported  his  science,  and  gave  his 
country  what  it  wanted  before;  or  rather  he  imported  only  the 
materials,  and  manufactured  them  by  his  own  skill. 

The  dialogue  on  the  Drama  was  one  of  his  first  essays  of  criti- 
cism, written  when  he  was  yet  a  timorous  candidate  for  reputa- 
tion, and  therefore  labored  with  that  diligence  which  he  might 
allow  himself  somewhat  to  remit,  when  his  name  gave  sanction 
to  his  positions,  and  his  awe  of  the  public  was  abated,  partly 
by  custom  and  partly  by  success.  It  will  not  be  easy  to  find, 
in  all  the  opulence  of  our  language,  a  treatise  so  artfully  varie- 
gated with  successive  representations  of  opposite  probabilities, 
so  enlivened  with  imagery,  so  brightened  with  illustrations. 
His  portraits  of  the  English  dramatists  are  wrought  with  great 
spirit  and  diligence.  The  account  of  Shakespeare  may  stand  as 
a  perpetual  model  of  encomiastic  criticism ;  exact  without  mi- 
nuteness, and  lofty  without  exaggeration.  The  praise  lavished  by 
Longinus,  on  the  attestation  of  the  heroes  of  Marathon  by  De- 
mosthenes, fades  away  before  it.  In  a  few  lines  is  exhibited  a 
character  so  extensive  in  its  comprehension,  and  so  curious  in 
its  limitations,  that  nothing  can  be  added,  diminished,  or  re- 
formed; nor  can  the  editors  and  admirers  of  Shakespeare,  in  all 
their  emulation  of  reverence,  boast  of  much  more  than  of  having 
diffused  and  paraphrased  this  epitome  of  excellence,  —  of  hav- 
ing changed  Dryden's  gold  for  baser  metal,  of  lower  value 
though  of  greater  bulk. 

In  this,  and  in  all  his  other  essays  on  the  same  subject,  the 
criticism  of  Dryden  is  the  criticism  of  a  poet;  not  a  dull  collec- 
tion of  theorems,  not  a  rude  detection  of  faults,  which  perhaps 
the  censor  was  not  able  to  have  committed,  but  a  gay  and 
vigorous  dissertation,  where  delight  is  mingled  with  instruc- 
tion, and  where  the  author  proves  his  right  of  judgment  by  his 
power  of  performance.  ...  As  he  had  studied  with  great  dili- 


394  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

gence  the  art  of  poetry,  and  enlarged  or  rectified  his  notions  by 
experience  perpetually  increasing,  he  had  his  mind  stored  with 
principles  and  observations.  He  poured  out  his  knowledge  with 
little  labor;  for  of  labor,  notwithstanding  the  multiplicity  of  his 
productions,  there  is  sufficient  reason  to  suspect  that  he  was  not 
a  lover.  To  write  con  amore,  with  fondness  for  the  employment, 
with  perpetual  touches  and  retouches,  with  unwillingness  to 
take  leave  of  his  own  idea,  and  an  unwearied  pursuit  of  unat- 
tainable perfection,  was,  I  think,  no  part  of.  his  character. 

His  criticism  may  be  considered  as  general  or  occasional.  In 
his  general  precepts,  which  depend  upon  the  nature  of  things 
and  the  structure  of  the  human  mind,  he  may  doubtless  be 
safely  recommended  to  the  confidence  of  the  reader;  but  his 
occasional  and  particular  positions  were  sometimes  interested, 
sometimes  negligent,  and  sometimes  capricious.  .  .  .  He  is 
therefore  by  no  means  constant  to  himself.  His  defense  and 
desertion  of  dramatic  rhyme  is  generally  known.  Spence,  in  his 
remarks  on  Pope's  Odyssey,  produces  what  he  thinks  an  uncon- 
querable quotation  from  Dryden's  Preface  to  the  sEneid,  in 
favor  of  translating  an  epic  poem  into  blank  verse ;  but  he  for- 
gets that  when  his  author  attempted  the  Iliad,  some  years 
afterwards,  he  departed  from  his  own  decision  and  translated 
into  rhyme.  When  he  has  any  objection  to  obviate,  or  any  li- 
cense to  defend,  he  is  not  very  scrupulous  about  what  he  asserts, 
nor  very  cautious,  if  the  present  purpose  be  served,  not  to  en- 
tangle himself  in  his  own  sophistries.  But,  when  all  arts  are 
exhausted,  like  other  hunted  animals,  he  sometimes  stands  at 
bay ;  when  he  cannot  disown  the  grossness  of  one  of  his  plays, 
he  declares  that  he  knows  not  any  law  that  prescribes  morality 
to  a  comic  poet.  .  .  . 

His  literature,  though  not  always  free  from  ostentation,  will 
be  commonly  found  either  obvious,  and  made  his  own  by  the 
art  of  dressing  it;  or  superficial,  which,  by  what  he  gives,  shows 
what  he  wanted;  or  erroneous,  hastily  collected,  and  negli- 
gently scattered.  Yet  it  cannot  be  said  that  his  genius  is  ever 
unprovided  of  matter,  or  that  his  fancy  languishes  in  penury  of 
ideas.  His  works  abound  with  knowledge,  and  sparkle  with 
illustrations.  There  is  scarcely  any  science  or  faculty  that  does 
not  supply  him  with  occasional  images  and  lucky  similitudes; 
every  page  discovers  a  mind  very  widely  acquainted  both  with 


LIVES   OF   THE   ENGLISH  POETS  395 

art  and  nature,  and  in  full  possession  of  great  stores  of  intellec- 
tual wealth.  Of  him  that  knows  much  it  is  natural  to  suppose 
that  he  has  read  with  diligence;  yet  I  rather  believe  that  the 
knowledge  of  Dryden  was  gleaned  from  accidental  intelligence 
and  various  conversation,  by  a  quick  apprehension,  a  judicious 
selection,  and  a  happy  memory,  a  keen  appetite  of  knowledge, 
and  a  powerful  digestion;  by  vigilance  that  permitted  nothing 
to  pass  without  notice,  and  a  habit  of  reflection  that  suffered 
nothing  useful  to  be  lost.  A  mind  like  Dryden's,  always  curious, 
always  active,  to  which  every  understanding  was  proud  to  be 
associated,  and  of  which  every  one  solicited  the  regard,  by  an 
ambitious  display  of  himself,  had  a  more  pleasant,  perhaps  a 
nearer  way  to  knowledge  than  by  the  silent  progress  of  solitary 
reading.  I  do  not  suppose  that  he  despised  books,  or  intention- 
ally neglected  them;  but  that  he  was  carried  out,  by  the  im- 
petuosity of  his  genius,  to  more  vivid  and  speedy  instructors, 
and  that  his  studies  were  rather  desultory  and  fortuitous  than 
constant  and  systematical.  .  .  . 

Criticism,  either  didactic  or  defensive,  occupies  almost  all 
his  prose,  except  those  pages  which  he  has  devoted  to  his  pa- 
trons ;  but  none  of  his  prefaces  were  ever  thought  tedious.  They 
have  not  the  formality  of  a  settled  style,  in  which  the  first  half 
of  the  sentence  betrays  the  other.  The  clauses  are  never  bal- 
anced, nor  the  periods  modeled;  every  word  seems  to  drop  by 
chance,  though  it  falls  into  its  proper  place.  Nothing  is  cold  or 
languid;  the  whole  is  airy,  animated,  and  vigorous;  what  is 
little  is  gay,  what  is  great  is  splendid.  He  may  be  thought  to 
mention  himself  too  frequently;  but,  while  he  forces  himself 
upon  our  esteem,  we  cannot  refuse  him  to  stand  high  in  his  own. 
Everything  is  excused  by  the  play  of  images  and  the  sprightli- 
ness  of  expression.  Though  all  is  easy,  nothing  is  feeble;  though 
all  seems  careless,  there  is  nothing  harsh;  and  though  since  his 
earlier  works  more  than  a  century  has  passed,  they  have  no- 
thing yet  uncouth  or  obsolete.  He  who  writes  much  will  not 
easily  escape  a  manner,  —  such  a  recurrence  of  particular 
modes  as  may  be  easily  noted.  Dryden  is  always  "  another  and 
the  same";  he  does  not  exhibit  a  second  time  the  same  elegan- 
cies in  the  same  form,  nor  appears  to  have  any  art  other  than 
that  of  expressing  with  clearness  what  he  thinks  with  vigor. 
His  style  could  not  easily  be  imitated,  either  seriously  or  ludi- 


396  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

crously;  for,  being  always  equable  and  always  varied,  it  has  no 
prominent  or  discriminative  characters.  The  beauty  who  is 
totally  free  from  disproportion  of  parts  and  features  cannot  be 
ridiculed  by  an  overcharged  resemblance. 

From  his  prose,  however,  Dryden  derives  only  his  accidental 
and  secondary  praise;  the  veneration  with  which  his  name  is 
pronounced  by  every  cultivator  of  English  literature,  is  paid 
to  him  as  he  refined  the  language,  improved  the  sentiments, 
and  tuned  the  numbers,  of  English  poetry. 

After  about  half  a  century  of  forced  thoughts  and  rugged 
metre,  some  advances  towards  nature  and  harmony  had  been 
already  made  by  Waller  and  Denham;  they  had  shown  that 
long  discourses  in  rhyme  grew  more  pleasing  when  they  were 
broken  into  couplets,  and  that  verse  consisted  not  only  in  the 
number  but  the  arrangement  of  syllables.  But  though  they  did 
much,  who  can  deny  that  they  left  much  to  do?  Their  works 
were  not  many,  nor  were  their  minds  of  very  ample  comprehen- 
sion. More  examples  of  more  modes  of  composition  were  neces- 
sary for  the  establishment  of  regularity,  and  the  introduction  of 
propriety  in  word  and  thought. 

Every  language  of  a  learned  nation  necessarily  divides  itself 
into  diction  scholastic  and  popular,  grave  and  familiar,  elegant 
and  gross;  and  from  a  nice  distinction  of  these  different  parts 
arises  a  great  part  of  the  beauty  of  style.  But,  if  we  except  a 
few  minds,  the  favorites  of  nature,  to  whom  their  own  original 
rectitude  was  in  the  place  of  rules,  this  delicacy  of  selection  was 
little  known  to  our  authors.  Our  speech  lay  before  them  in  a 
heap  of  confusion,  and  every  man  took  for  every  purpose  what 
chance  might  offer  him.  There  was  therefore  before  the  time  of 
Dryden  no  poetical  diction,  no  system  of  words  at  once  refined 
from  the  grossness  of  domestic  use,  and  free  from  the  harsh- 
ness of  terms  appropriated  to  particular  arts.  Words  too 
familiar,  or  too  remote,  defeat  the  purpose  of  a  poet.  From 
those  sounds  which  we  hear  on  small  or  on  coarse  occasions,  we 
do  not  easily  receive  strong  impressions  or  delightful  images ; 
and  words  to  which  we  are  nearly  strangers,  whenever  they 
occur,  draw  that  attention  on  themselves  which  they  should 
transmit  to  things.  Those  happy  combinations  of  words  which 
distinguish  poetry  from  prose  had  been  rarely  attempted;  we 
had  few  elegancies  or  flowers  of  speech.  The  roses  had  not  yet 


LIVES   OF  THE   ENGLISH  POETS  397 

been  plucked  from  the  bramble,  or  different  colors  had  not  been 
joined  to  enliven  one  another. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  Waller  and  Denham  could  have 
overborne  the  prejudices  which  had  long  prevailed,  and  which 
even  then  were  sheltered  by  the  protection  of  Cowley.  The 
new  versification,  as  it  was  called,  may  be  considered  as  owing 
its  establishment  to  Dryden,  from  whose  time  it  is  apparent 
that  English  poetry  has  had  no  tendency  to  relapse  to  its  former 
savageness.  .  .  . 

Absalom  and  Achitophel  is  a  work  so  well  known  that  particu- 
lar criticism  is  superfluous.  If  it  be  considered  as  a  poem  politi- 
cal and  controversial,  it  will  be  found  to  comprise  all  the  excel- 
lences of  which  the  subject  is  susceptible:  acrimony  of  censure, 
elegance  of  praise,  artful  delineation  of  characters,  variety  and 
vigor  of  sentiment,  happy  turns  of  language,  and  pleasing  har- 
mony of  numbers ;  and  all  these  raised  to  such  a  height  as  can 
scarcely  be  found  in  any  other  English  composition. 

It  is  not,  however,  without  faults.  Some  lines  are  inelegant 
or  improper,  and  too  many  are  irreligiously  licentious.  The 
original  structure  of  the  poem  was  defective;  allegories  drawn 
to  great  length  will  always  break;  Charles  could  not  run  contin- 
ually parallel  with  David.  The  subject  had  likewise  another 
inconvenience:  it  admitted  little  imagery  or  description;  and  a 
long  poem  of  mere  sentiments  easily  becomes  tedious.  Though 
all  the  parts  are  forcible,  and  every  new  line  kindles  new  rapture, 
the  reader,  if  not  relieved  by  the  interposition  of  something 
that  soothes  the  fancy,  grows  weary  of  admiration,  and  defers 
the  rest.  As  an  approach  to  the  historical  truth  was  necessary, 
the  action  and  catastrophe  were  not  in  the  poet's  power;  there 
is  therefore  an  unpleasing  disproportion  between  the  beginning 
and  the  end.  We  are  alarmed  by  a  faction  formed  out  of  many 
sects,  various  in  their  principles  but  agreeing  in  their  purpose 
of  mischief,  formidable  for  their  numbers,  and  strong  by  their 
supports;  while  the  king's  friends  are  few  and  weak.  The  chiefs 
on  either  part  are  set  forth  to  view;  but  when  expectation  is  at 
the  height,  the  king  makes  a  speech,  and  - 

Henceforth  a  series  of  new  times  began. 

Who  can  forbear  to  think  of  an  enchanted  castle,  with  a  wide 
moat  and  lofty  battlements,  walls  of  marble,  and  gates  of  brass, 


398  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

which  vanishes  at  once  into  air,  when  the  destined  knight  blows 
his  horn  before  it?  ... 

His  poem  on  the  death  of  Mrs.  Killigrew  is  undoubtedly  the 
noblest  ode  that  our  language  ever  has  produced.  The  first  part 
flows  with  a  torrent  of  enthusiasm.  Fervet  immensusque  ruit.1 
All  the  stanzas,  indeed,  are  not  equal.  An  imperial  crown  can- 
not be  one  continued  diamond;  the  gems  must  be  held  together 
by  some  less  valuable  matter. 

In  his  first  Ode  for  Cecilia's  Day,  which  is  lost  in  the  splendor 
of  the  second,  there  are  passages  which  would  have  dignified  any 
other  poet.  The  first  stanza  is  vigorous  and  elegant,  though 
the  word  diapason  is  too  technical,  and  the  rhymes  are  too 
remote  from  one  another.  .  .  .  The  conclusion  is  likewise 
striking;  but  it  includes  an  image  so  awful  in  itself  that  it 
can  owe  little  to  poetry.  .  .  . 

The  Religio  Laid,  which  borrows  its  title  from  the  Religio 
Medici  of  Browne,  is  almost  the  only  work  of  Dryden  which 
can  be  considered  as  a  voluntary  effusion.  In  this,  therefore,  it 
might  be  hoped  that  the  full  effulgence  of  his  genius  would  be 
found.  But  unhappily  the  subject  is  rather  argumentative 
than  poetical;  he  intended  only  a  specimen  of  metrical  dispu- 
tation :  — 

And  this  unpolish'd  rugged  verse  I  chose, 
As  fittest  for  discourse,  and  nearest  prose. 

This,  however,  is  a  composition  of  great  excellence  in  its  kind, 
in  which  the  familiar  is  very  properly  diversified  with  the 
solemn,  and  the  grave  with  the  humorous;  in  which  metre  has 
neither  weakened  the  force  nor  clouded  the  perspicuity  of  argu- 
ment. Nor  will  it  be  easy  to  find  another  example  equally 
happy  of  this  middle  kind  of  writing,  which,  though  prosaic 
in  some  parts,  rises  to  high  poetry  in  others,  and  neither  towers 
to  the  skies  nor  creeps  along  the  ground. 

Of  the  same  kind,  or  not  far  distant  from  it,  is  The  Hind  and 
the  Panther,  the  longest  of  Dryden's  original  poems,  —  an  alle- 
gory intended  to  comprise  and  to  decide  the  controversy  between 
the  Romanists  and  Protestants.  The  scheme  of  the  work  is  in- 
judicious and  incommodious ;  for  what  can  be  more  absurd  than 
that  one  beast  should  counsel  another  to  rest  her  faith  upon 
a  Pope  and  Council?  He  seems  well  enough  skilled  in  the  usual 

1  "He  foams  and  rushes  like  a  huge  stream."   (Said  of  Pindar  by  Horace.) 


LIVES   OF   THE   ENGLISH  POETS  399 

topics  of  argument,  endeavors  to  show  the  necessity  of  an  infal- 
lible judge,  and  reproaches  the  Reformers  with  want  of  unity, 
but  is  weak  enough  to  ask  why,  since  we  see  without  knowing 
how,  we  may  not  have  an  infallible  judge  without  knowing 
where?  The  Hind  at  one  time  is  afraid  to  drink  at  the  common 
brook,  because  she  may  be  worried;  but,  walking  home  with 
the  Panther,  talks  by  the  way  of  the  Nicene  fathers,  and  at  last 
declares  herself  to  be  the  Catholic  Church.  This  absurdity  was 
very  properly  ridiculed  in  The  City  Mouse  and  Country  Mouse  of 
Montague  and  Prior,  and  in  the  detection  and  censure  of  the 
incongruity  of  the  fiction  chiefly  consists  the  value  of  their 
performance.  .  .  .  The  original  incongruity  runs  through  the 
whole ;  the  king  is  now  Caesar,  and  now  the  Lion,  and  the  name 
Pan  is  given  to  the  Supreme  Being.  But  when  this  constitu- 
tional absurdity  is  forgiven,  the  poem  must  be  confessed  to  be 
written  with  great  smoothness  of  metre,  a  wide  extent  of  know- 
ledge, and  an  abundant  multiplicity  of  images.  The  contro- 
versy is  embellished  with  pointed  sentences,  diversified  by 
illustrations,  and  enlivened  by  sallies  of  invective.  Some  of  the 
facts  to  which  allusions  are  made  are  now  become  obscure,  and 
perhaps  there  may  be  many  satirical  passages  little  understood. 
As  it  was  by  its  nature  a  work  of  defiance,  a  composition  which 
would  naturally  be  examined  with  the  utmost  acrimony  of 
criticism,  it  was  probably  labored  with  uncommon  attention; 
and  there  are,  indeed,  few  negligences  in  the  subordinate 
parts.  The  original  impropriety  and  the  subsequent  unpopu- 
larity of  the  subject,  added  to  the  ridiculousness  of  its  first  ele- 
ments, has  sunk  it  into  neglect;  but  it  may  be  usefully  studied 
as  an  example  of  poetical  ratiocination,  in  which  the  argument 
suffers  little  from  the  metre.  .  .  . 

His  last  work  was  his  Fables,  in  which  he  gave  us  the  first 
example  of  a  mode  of  writing  which  the  Italians  call  refacci- 
mento,  a  renovation  of  ancient  writers  by  modernizing  their 
language.  Thus  the  old  poem  of  Boiardo  has  been  new  dressed 
by  Domenichi  and  Berni.  The  works  of  Chaucer,  upon  which 
this  kind  of  rejuvenescence  has  been  bestowed  by  Dryden, 
require  little  criticism.  The  tale  of  the  cock  seems  hardly  worth 
revival;  and  the  story  of  Palamon  and  Arcite,  containing  an 
action  unsuitable  to  the  times  in  which  it  is  placed,  can  hardly 
be  suffered  to  pass  without  censure  of  the  hyperbolical  com- 


400  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

mendation  which  Dryden  has  given  it  in  the  general  Preface 
and  in  a  poetical  Dedication,  —  a  piece  where  his  original  fond- 
ness of  remote  conceits  seems  to  have  revived.  Of  the  three 
pieces  borrowed  from  Boccace,  Sigismunda  may  be  defended  by 
the  celebrity  of  the  story.  Theodore  and  Honoria,  though  it 
contains  not  much  moral,  yet  afforded  opportunities  of  strik- 
ing description.  And  Cymon  was  formerly  a  tale  of  such  repu- 
tation that  at  the  Revival  of  Letters  it  was  translated  into 
Latin  by  one  of  the  Beroalds. 

Whatever  subjects  employed  his  pen,  he  was  still  improving 
our  measures  and  embellishing  our  language. 

In  this  volume  are  interspersed  some  short  original  poems 
which,  with  his  prologues,  epilogues,  and  songs,  may  be  com- 
prised in  Congreve's  remark  that  even  those,  if  he  had  written 
nothing  else,  would  have  entitled  him  to  the  praise  of  excellence 
in  his  kind.  One  composition  must,  however,  be  distinguished. 
The  Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  perhaps  the  last  effort  of  his 
poetry,  has  been  always  considered  as  exhibiting  the  highest 
flight  of  fancy  and  the  exactest  nicety  of  art.  This  is  allowed  to 
stand  without  a  rival.  If  indeed  there  is  any  excellence  beyond 
it,  in  some  other  of  Dryden's  works  that  excellence  must  be 
found.  Compared  with  the  ode  on  Killigrew,  it  may  be  pro- 
nounced perhaps  superior  in  the  whole,  but  without  any  single 
part  equal  to  the  first  stanza  of  the  other.  It  is  said  to  have  cost 
Dryden  a  fortnight's  labor;  but  it  does  not  want  its  negligences. 
Some  of  the  lines  are  without  correspondent  rhymes,  —  a  de- 
fect which  I  never  detected  but  after  an  acquaintance  of  many 
years,  and  which  the  enthusiasm  of  the  writer  might  hinder 
him  from  perceiving.  His  last  stanza  has  less  emotion  than  the 
former,  but  it  is  not  less  elegant  in  the  diction.  The  conclusion 
is  vicious;  the  music  of  Timotheus,  which  "raised  a  mortal  to 
the  skies,"  had  only  a  metaphorical  power;  that  of  Cecilia, 
which  "drew  an  angel  down,"  had  a  real  effect;  the  crown 
therefore  could  not  reasonably  be  divided. 

In  a  general  survey  of  Dryden's  labors,  he  appears  to  have  a 
mind  very  comprehensive  by  nature,  and  much  enriched  with 
acquired  knowledge.  His  compositions  are  the  effects  of  a  vig- 
orous genius  operating  upon  large  materials.  The  power  that 
predominated  in  his  intellectual  operations  was  rather  strong 
reason  than  quick  sensibility.  Upon  all  occasions  that  were 


LIVES   OF  THE   ENGLISH   POETS  40.: 

presented,  he  studied  rather  than  felt,  and  produced  sentiments 
not  such  as  Nature  enforces,  but  meditation  supplies.  With  the 
simple  and  elemental  passions,  as  they  spring  separate  in  the 
mind,  he  seems  not  much  acquainted,  and  seldom  describes 
them  but  as  they  are  complicated  by  the  various  relations  of 
society,  and  confused  in  the  tumults  and  agitations  of  life. 

What  he  says  of  Love  may  contribute  to  the  explanation  of 
his  character:  — 

Love  various  minds  does  variously  inspire; 

It  stirs  in  gentle  bosoms  gentle  fire, 

Like  that  of  incense  on  the  altar  laid; 

But  raging  flames  tempestuous  souls  invade;  — 

A  fire  which  every  windy  passion  blows, 

With  pride  it  mounts,  or  with  revenge  it  glows. 

Dry  den's  was  not  one  of  the  "  gentle  bosoms."  Love,  as  it  sub- 
sists in  itself,  with  no  tendency  but  to  the  person  loved,  and 
wishing  only  for  correspondent  kindness,  —  such  love  as  shuts 
out  all  other  interest,  the  love  of  the  Golden  Age,  —  was  too 
soft  and  subtle  to  put  his  faculties  in  motion.  He  hardly  con- 
ceived it  but  in  its  turbulent  effervescence  with  some  other 
desires — when  it  was  inflamed  by  rivalry,  or  obstructed  by 
difficulties;  when  .it  invigorated  ambition,  or  exasperated 
revenge.  He  is,  therefore,  with  all  his  variety  of  excellence,  not 
often  pathetic,  and  had  so  little  sensibility  of  the  power  of 
effusions  purely  natural,  that  he  did  not  esteem  them  in  others. 
Simplicity  gave  him  no  pleasure;  and  for  the  first  part  of  his 
life  he  looked  on  Otway  with  contempt,  though  at  last,  indeed 
very  late,  he  confessed  that  in  his  play  there  was  "Nature, 
which  is  the  chief  beauty." 

We  do  not  always  know  our  own  motives.  I  am  not  certain 
whether  it  was  not  rather  the  difficulty  which  he  found  in 
exhibiting  the  genuine  operations  of  the  heart,  than  a  servile 
submission  to  an  injudicious  audience,  that  filled  his  plays 
with  false  magnificence.  It  was  necessary  to  fix  attention;  and 
the  mind  can  be  captivated  only  by  recollection  or  by  curios- 
ity, —  by  reviving  natural  sentiments,  or  impressing  new  ap- 
pearances of  things.  Sentences  were  readier  at  his  call  than 
images;  he  could  more  easily  fill  the  ear  with  some  splendid 
novelty,  than  awaken  those  ideas  that  slumber  in  the  heart. .  . . 

Of  Dryden's  works  it  was  said  by  Pope  that  he  "could  select 


402  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

from  them  better  specimens  of  every  mode  of  poetry  than  any 
other  English  writer  could  supply."  Perhaps  no  nation  ever 
produced  a  writer  that  enriched  his  language  with  such  variety 
of  models.  To  him  we  owe  the  improvement,  perhaps  the 
completion,  of  our  metre,  the  refinement  of  our  language,  and 
much  of  the  correctness  of  our  sentiments.  By  him  we  were 
taught  sapere  etfari,  —  to  think  naturally  and  express  forcibly. 
Though  Davies  has  reasoned  in  rhyme  before  him,  it  may  be 
perhaps  maintained  that  he  was  the  first  who  joined  argument 
with  poetry.  He  showed  us  the  true  bounds  of  a  translator's 
liberty.  What  was  said  of  Rome,  adorned  by  Augustus,  may 
be  applied  by  an  easy  metaphor  to  English  poetry  embellished 
by  Dryden:  Lateritiam  invenit,  marmoream  reliquit.  He  found  it 
brick,  and  he  left  it  marble. 

ADDISON 

.  .  .  Addison  is  now  to  be  considered  as  a  critic,  —  a  name 
which  the  present  generation  is  scarcely  willing  to  allow  him. 
His  criticism  is  condemned  as  tentative  or  experimental,  rather 
than  scientific,  and  he  is  considered  as  deciding  by  taste  rather 
than  by  principles. 

It  is  not  uncommon  for  those  who  have  grown  wise  by  the 
labor  of  others  to  add  a  little  of  their  own,  and  overlook  their 
masters.  Addison  is  now  despised  by  some  who  perhaps  would 
never  have  seen  his  defects  but  by  the  lights  which  he  afforded 
them.  That  he  always  wrote  as  he  would  think  it  necessary  to 
write  now,  cannot  be  affirmed ;  his  instructions  were  such  as  the 
characters  of  his  readers  made  proper.  That  general  knowledge 
which  now  circulates  in  common  talk,  was  in  his  time  rarely  to 
be  found.  Men  not  professing  learning  were  not  ashamed  of 
ignorance;  and  in  the  female  world  any  acquaintance  with 
books  was  distinguished  only  to  be  censured.  His  purpose  was 
to  infuse  literary  curiosity  by  gentle  and  unsuspected  convey- 
ance, into  the  gay,  the  idle,  and  the  wealthy.  He  therefore  pre- 
sented knowledge  in  the  most  alluring  form,  not  l^fty  and 
austere,  but  accessible  and  familiar.  When  he  showed  them 
their  defects,  he  showed  them  likewise  that  they  might  be  easily 
supplied.  His  attempt  succeeded;  inquiry  was  awakened  and 
comprehension  expanded.  An  emulation  of  intellectual  ele- 
gance was  excited,  and  from  this  time  to  our  own  life  has  been 
gradually  exalted,  and  conversation  purified  and  enlarged. 


LIVES   OF   THE   ENGLISH  POETS  403 

Dryden  had,  not  many  years  before,  scattered  criticism  over 
his  prefaces  with  very  little  parsimony;  but,  though  he  some- 
times condescended  to  be  somewhat  familiar,  his  manner  was 
in  general  too  scholastic  for  those  who  had  yet  their  rudiments 
to  learn,  and  found  it  not  easy  to  understand  their  master. 
His  observations  were  framed  rather  for  those  that  were  learn- 
ing to  write  than  for  those  that  read  only  to  talk.  An  instructor 
like  Addison  was  now  wanting,  whose  remarks,  being  superficial, 
might  be  easily  understood,  and,  being  just,  might  prepare  the 
mind  for  more  attainments.  Had  he  presented  Paradise  Lost  to 
the  public  with  all  the  pomp  of  system  and  severity  of  science, 
the  criticism  would  perhaps  have  been  admired,  and  the  poem 
still  have  been  neglected.  But  by  the  blandishments  of  gen- 
tleness and  facility  he  has  made  Milton  an  universal  favorite, 
with  whom  readers  of  every  class  think  it  necessary  to  be 
pleased. 

He  descended  now  and  then  to  lower  disquisitions,  and  by  a 
serious  display  of  the  beauties  of  Chevy  Chase1  exposed  himself 
to  the  ridicule  of  Wagstaff,  who  bestowed  a  like  pompous  char- 
acter on  Tom  Thumb,  and  to  the  contempt  of  Dennis,  who, 
considering  the  fundamental  position  of  his  criticism,  that 
Chevy  Chase  pleases,  and  ought  to  please,  because  it  is  natural, 
observes  "that  there  is  a  way  of  deviating  from  nature  by 
bombast  or  tumor,  which  soars  above  nature,  and  enlarges 
images  beyond  their  real  bulk;  by  affectation,  which  forsakes 
nature  in  quest  of  something  unsuitable;  and  by  imbecility, 
which  degrades  nature  by  faintness  and  diminution,  by  obscur- 
ing its  appearances  and  weakening  its  effects."  In  Chevy  Chase 
there  is  not  much  of  either  bombast  or  affectation,  but  there  is 
chill  and  lifeless  imbecility.  The  story  cannot  possibly  be  told 
in  a  manner  that  shall  make  less  impression  on  the  mind. 

Before  the  profound  observers  of  the  present  race  repose  too 
securely  on  the  consciousness  of  their  superiority  to  Addison, 
let  them  consider  his  Remarks  on  Ovid,  in  which  may  be  found 
specimens  of  criticism  sufficiently  subtle  and  refined;  let  them 
peruse  likewise  his  essays  on  Wit,  and  on  the  Pleasures  of 
Imagination,  in  which  he  founds  art  on  the  base  of  nature,  and 
draws  the  principles  of  invention  from  dispositions  inherent  in 
the  mind  of  man,  with  skill  and  elegance  such  as  his  contemners 
will  not  easily  obtain. 

1  See  page  184,  above. 


4o4  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

As  a  describer  of  life  and  manners,  he  must  be  allowed  to 
stand  perhaps  the  first  of  the  first  rank.  His  humor,  which,  as 
Steele  observes,  is  peculiar  to  himself,  is  so  happily  diffused  as 
to  give  the  grace  of  novelty  to  domestic  scenes  and  daily  oc- 
currences. He  never  "outsteps  the  modesty  of  nature,"  nor 
raises  merriment  or  wonder  by  the  violation  of  truth.  His 
figures  neither  divert  by  distortion  nor  amaze  by  aggravation. 
He  copies  life  with  so  much  fidelity  that  he  can  be  hardly  said 
to  invent; yet  his  exhibitions  have  an  air  so  much  original,  that 
it  is  difficult  to  suppose  them  not  merely  the  product  of  imagi- 
nation. 

As  a  teacher  of  wisdom,  he  may  be  confidently  followed.  His 
religion  has  nothing  in  it  enthusiastic  or  superstitious;  he  ap- 
pears neither  weakly  credulous  nor  wantonly  skeptical;  his 
morality  is  neither  dangerously  lax  nor  impracticably  rigid.  All 
the  enchantment  of  fancy,  and  all  the  cogency  of  argument,  are 
employed  to  recommend  to  the  reader  his  real  interest,  the  care 
of  pleasing  the  Author  of  his  being.  Truth  is  shown  sometimes 
as  the  phantom  of  a  vision,  sometimes  appears  half  veiled  in  an 
allegory,  sometimes  attracts  regard  in  the  robes  of  fancy,  and 
sometimes  steps  forth  in  the  confidence  of  reason.  She  wears  a 
thousand  dresses,  and  in  all  is  pleasing. 

M Hie  habet  ornatus,  mille  decenler  habet. 

His  prose  is  the  model  of  the  middle  style ;  on  grave  subjects 
not  formal,  on  light  occasions  not  groveling;  pure  without 
scrupulosity,  and  exact  without  apparent  elaboration;  always 
equable  and  always  easy,  without  glowing  words  or  pointed 
sentences.  Addison  never  deviates  from  his  track  to  snatch 
a  grace;  he  seeks  no  ambitious  ornaments,  and  tries  no  hazard- 
ous innovations.  His  page  is  always  luminous,  but  never  blazes 
in  unexpected  splendor.  It  was  apparently  his  principal  en- 
deavor to  avoid  all  harshness  and  severity  of  diction;  he  is 
therefore  sometimes  verbose  in  his  transitions  and  connections, 
and  sometimes  descends  too  much  to  the  language  of  conversa- 
tion. Yet  if  his  language  had  been  less  idiomatical,  it  might 
have  lost  somewhat  of  its  genuine  anglicism.  What  he  at- 
tempted, he  performed.  He  is  never  feeble,  and  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  energetic;  he  is  never  rapid,  and  he  never  stagnates. 
His  sentences  have  neither  studied  amplitude  nor  affected 


LIVES   OF  THE   ENGLISH  POETS  405 

brevity;  his  periods,  though  not  diligently  rounded,  are  volu- 
able  and  easy.  Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English  style 
familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  ostentatious, 
must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison. 

POPE 

. . .  Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  discernment  were 
not  allotted  in  a  less  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The 
rectitude  of  Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  the  dis- 
mission of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural 
thoughts  and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to 
apply  all  the  judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed 
to  write,  merely  for  the  people;  and  when  he  pleased  others  he 
contented  himself.  He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent 
powers;  he  never  attempted  to  make  that  better  which  was 
already  good,  nor  often  to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to 
be  faulty.  He  wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  very  little  considera- 
tion. When  occasion  or  necessity  called  upon  him,  he  poured 
out  what  the  present  moment  happened  to  supply,  and,  when 
once  it  had  passed  the  press,  ejected  it  from  his  mind;  for  when 
he  had  no  pecuniary  interest  he  had  no  further  solicitude. 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy.  He  desired  to  excel,  and 
therefore  always  endeavored  to  do  his  best.  He  did  not  court 
the  candor,  but  dared  the  judgment,  of  his  reader;  and,  expect- 
ing no  indulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He 
examined  lines  and  words  with  minute  and  punctilious  obser- 
vation, and  retouched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence, 
till  he  had  left  nothing  to  be  forgiven.  For  this  reason  he  kept 
his  pieces  very  long  in  his  hands,  while  he  considered  and  re- 
considered them.  The  only  poems  which  can  be  supposed  to 
have  been  written  with  such  regard  to  the  times  as  might 
hasten  their  publication,  were  the  two  satires  of  Thirty-eight, 
of  which  Dodsley  told  me  that  they  were  brought  to  him 
by  the  author  that  they  might  be  fairly  copied.  "  Almost  every 
line,"  he  said,  "  was  then  written  twice  over.  I  gave  him  a  clean 
transcript,  which  he  sent  some  time  afterwards  to  me  for  the 
press,  with  almost  every  line  written  twice  over  a  second  time." 
His  declaration  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at  their 
publication  was  not  strictly  true.  His  parental  attention 
never  abandoned  them ;  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edi- 


4o6  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

tion,  he  silently  corrected  in  those  that  followed.  He  appears 
to  have  revised  the  Iliad,  and  freed  it  from  some  of  its  imper- 
fections; and  the  Essay  on  Criticism  received  many  improve- 
ments after  its  first  appearance.  It  will  seldom  be  found  that 
he  altered  without  adding  clearness,  elegance,  or  vigor.  Pope 
had  perhaps  the  judgment  of  Dry  den;  but  Dryden  certainly 
wanted  the  diligence  of  Pope. 

In  acquired  knowledge  the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to 
Dryden,  whose  education  was  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before 
he  became  an  author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study, 
with  better  means  of  information.  His  mind  has  a  larger  range, 
and  he  collects  his  images  and  illustrations  from  a  more  exten- 
sive circumference  of  science.  Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in  his 
general  nature,  and  Pope  in  his  local  manners.  The  notions  of 
Dryden  were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation,  and  those 
of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity  in  the 
knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either,  for  both  excelled 
likewise  in  prose ;  but  Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his 
predecessor.  The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied;  that 
of  Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  observes  the  motions 
of  his  own  mind;  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of 
composition.  Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid;  Pope 
is  always  smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a 
natural  field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and  diversified  by  the 
varied  exuberance  of  abundant  vegetation;  Pope's  is  a  velvet 
lawn,  shaven  by  the  scythe  and  leveled  by  the  roller. 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet,  that  quality 
without  which  judgment  is  cold  and  knowledge  is  inert,  that 
energy  which  collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates,  —  the 
superiority  must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Dryden. 
It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope  had  only 
a  little, because  Dryden  had  more;  for  every  other  writer  since 
Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope,  and  even  of  Dryden  it  must  be 
said  that,  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has  not  better 
poems.  Dryden's  performances  were  always  hasty,  either 
excited  by  some  external  occasion,  or  extorted  by  domestic 
necessity;  he  composed  without  consideration  and  published 
without  correction.  What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or 
gather  in  one  excursion,  was  all  that  he  sought  and  all  that  he 


LIVES   OF  THE  ENGLISH  POETS  407 

gave.  The  dilatory  caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense 
his  sentiments,  to  multiply  his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all 
that  study  might  produce  or  chance  might  supply.  If  the 
flights  of  Drydenare  higher,  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing. 
If  of  Dryden's  fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is 
more  regular  and  constant.  Dryden  often  surpasses  expecta- 
tion, and  Pope  never  falls  below  it.  Dryden  is  read  with  fre- 
quent astonishment,  and  Pope  with  perpetual  delight. 

This  parallel  will,  I  hope,  when  it  is  well  considered,  be  found 
just;  and  if  the  reader  should  suspect  me,  as  I  suspect  myself, 
of  some  partial  fondness  for  the  memory  of  Dryden,  let  him  not 
too  hastily  condemn  me,  for  meditation  and  inquiry  may  per- 
haps show  him  the  reasonableness  of  my  determination  .... 

The  Essay  on  Man  was  a  work  of  great  labor  and  long  consid- 
eration, but  certainly  not  the  happiest  of  Pope's  performances, 
The  subject  is  perhaps  not  very  proper  for  poetry,  and  the  poet 
was  not  sufficiently  master  of  his  subject.  Metaphysical  mo- 
rality was  to  him  a  new  study;  he  was  proud  of  his  acquisitions, 
and,  supposing  himself  master  of  great  secrets,  was  in  haste 
to  teach  what  he  had  not  learned.  Thus  he  tells  us,  in  the  first 
Epistle,  that  from  the  nature  of  the  Supreme  Being  may  be  de- 
duced an  order  of  beings  such  as  mankind,  because  Infinite 
Excellence  can  do  only  what  is  best.  He  finds  out  that  these 
beings  must  be  "somewhere,"  and  that  "all  the  question  is, 
whether  man  be  in  a  wrong  place."  Surely  if,  according  to 
the  poet's  Leibnitian  reasoning,  we  may  infer  that  man  ought 
to  be,  only  because  he  is,  we  may  allow  that  his  place  is  the 
right  place  because  he  has  it.  Supreme  Wisdom  is  not  less 
infallible  in  disposing  than  in  creation.  But  what  is  meant  by 
"somewhere"  and  "place"  and  "wrong  place,"  it  had  been 
vain  to  ask  Pope,  who  probably  had  never  asked  himself. 

Having  exalted  himself  into  the  chair  of  wisdom,  he  tells  us 
much  that  every  man  knows,  and  much  that  he  does  not  know 
himself:  that  we  see  but  little,  and  that  the  order  of  the  uni- 
verse is  beyond  our  comprehension,  —  an  opinion  not  very 
uncommon;  and  that  there  is  a  chain  of  subordinate  beings 
"from  infinite  to  nothing,"  —  of  which  himself  and  his  readers 
are  equally  ignorant.  But  he  gives  us  one  comfort,  which  with- 
out his  help  he  supposes  unattainable,  in  the  position  that 
"though  we  are  fools,  yet  God  is  wise." 


4o8  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

This  Essay  affords  an  egregious  instance  of  the  predominance 
of  genius,  the  dazzling  splendor  of  imagery,  and  the  seductive 
powers  of  eloquence.  Never  was  penury  of  knowledge  and  vul- 
garity of  sentiment  so  happily  disguised.  The  reader  feels  his 
mind  full,  though  he  learns  nothing;  and,  when  he  meets  it  in 
its  new  array,  no  longer  knows  the  talk  of  his  mother  and  his 
nurse.  When  these  wonder-working  sounds  sink  into  sense,  and 
the  doctrine  of  the  Essay,  disrobed  of  its  ornaments,  is  left  to 
the  powers  of  its  naked  excellence,  what  shall  we  discover? 
That  we  are,  in  comparison  with  our  Creator,  very  weak  and 
ignorant;  that  we  do  not  uphold  the  chain  of  existence;  and 
that  we  could  not  make  one  another  with  more  skill  than  we  are 
made.  We  may  learn  yet  more:  that  the  arts  of  human  life 
were  copied  from  the  instinctive  operations  of  other  animals; 
that,  if  the  world  be  made  for  man,  it  may  be  said  that  man 
was  made  for  geese.  To  these  profound  principles  of  natural 
knowledge  are  added  some  moral  instructions  equally  new: 
that  self-interest,  well  understood,  will  produce  social  concord; 
that  men  are  mutual  gainers  by  mutual  benefits;  that  evil  is 
sometimes  balanced  by  good;  that  human  advantages  are 
unstable  and  fallacious,  of  uncertain  duration  and  doubtful 
effect;  that  our  true  honor  is,  not  to  have  a  great  part,  but  to 
act  it  well;  that  virtue  only  is  our  own;  and  that  happiness  is 
always  in  our  power.  Surely  a  man  of  no  very  comprehensive 
search  may  venture  to  say  that  he  has  heard  all  this  before. 
But  it  was  never  till  now  recommended  by  such  a  blaze  of 
embellishment,  or  such  sweetness  of  melody.  The  vigorous 
contraction  of  some  thoughts,  the  luxuriant  amplification  of 
others,  the  incidental  illustrations,  and  sometimes  the  dignity, 
sometimes  the  softness  of  the  verses,  enchain  philosophy,  sus- 
pend criticism,  and  oppress  judgment  by  overpowering  plea- 
sure. This  is  true  of  many  paragraphs;  yet  if  I  had  undertaken 
to  exemplify  Pope's  felicity  of  composition  before  a  rigid  critic, 
I  should  not  select  the  Essay  on  Man;  for  it  contains  more 
lines  unsuccessfully  labored,  more  harshness  of  diction,  more 
thoughts  imperfectly  expressed,  more  levity  without  elegance, 
and  more  heaviness  without  strength,  than  will  easily  be  found 
in  all  his  other  works.  .  .  . 

After  all  this,  it  is  surely  superfluous  to  answer  the  question 
that  has  once  been  asked,  whether  Pope  was  a  poet,  otherwise 


LIVES   OF  THE   ENGLISH   POETS  409 

than  by  asking  in  return:  If  Pope  be  not  a  poet,  where  is  poetry 
to  be  found?  To  circumscribe  poetry  by  a  definition  will  only 
show  the  narrowness  of  the  definer,  though  a  definition  which 
shall  exclude  Pope  will  not  easily  be  made.  Let  us  look  round 
upon  the  present  time,  and  back  upon  the  past;  let  us  inquire 
to  whom  the  voice  of  mankind  has  decreed  the  wreath  of 
poetry;  let  their  productions  be  examined,  and  their  claims 
stated,  and  the  pretensions  of  Pope  will  be  no  more  disputed. 
Had  he  given  the  world  only  his  version,  the  name  of  poet  must 
have  been  allowed  him;  if  the  writer  of  the  Iliad  were  to  class 
his  successors,  he  would  assign  a  very  high  place  to  his  trans- 
lator, without  requiring  any  other  evidence  of  genius. 


DAVID   HUME 
ESSAY  ON  THE  STANDARD   OF  TASTE 

1757 

[This  essay  was  first  published  in  a  volume  called  Four  Dissertations,  the 
others  being  on  "The  Natural  History  of  Religion,"  "The  Passions,"  and 
"Tragedy."  In  the  following  year  (1758)  it  reappeared  in  the  volume 
called  Essays  and  Treatises  on  Several  Subjects.  Its  subject-matter  may  be 
compared  with  Addison's  essay  on  Taste  in  the  Spectator,  No.  409  (see 
page  204,  above.)] 

THE  great  variety  of  taste,  as  well  as  of  opinion,  which  pre- 
vails in  the  world,  is  too  obvious  not  to  have  fallen  under  every 
one's  observation.  Men  of  the  most  confined  knowledge  are 
able  to  remark  a  difference  of  taste  in  the  narrow  circle  of  their 
acquaintance,  even  where  the  persons  have  been  educated 
under  the  same  government  and  have  early  imbibed  the  same 
prejudices.  But  those  who  can  enlarge  their  view  to  contem- 
plate distant  nations  and  remote  ages,  are  still  more  surprised 
at  the.  great  inconsistence  and  contrariety.  We  are  apt  to  call 
barbarous  whatever  departs  widely  from  our  own  taste  and 
apprehension,  but  soon  find  the  epithet  of  reproach  retorted  on 
us.  And  the  highest  arrogance  and  self-conceit  is  at  last  start- 
led, on  observing  an  equal  assurance  on  all  sides,  and  scruples, 
amidst  such  a  contest  of  sentiment,  to  pronounce  positively  in 
its  own  favor. 

As  this  variety  of  taste  is  obvious  to  the  most  careless  in- 
quirer, so  will  it  be  found,  on  examination,  to  be  still  greater  in 
reality  than  in  appearance.  The  sentiments  of  men  often  differ 
with  regard  to  beauty  and  deformity  of  all  kinds,  even  while 
their  general  discourse  is  the  same.  There  are  certain  terms 
in  every  language  which  import  blame,  and  others  praise;  and 
all  men  who  use  the  same  tongue  must  agree  in  their  application 
of  them.  Every  voice  is  united  in  applauding  elegance,  pro- 
priety, simplicity,  spirit  in  writing,  and  in  blaming  fustian, 
affectation,  coldness,  and  a  false  brilliancy.  But  when  critics 
come  to  particulars,  this  seeming  unanimity  vanishes,  and  it  is 


THE   STANDARD   OF  TASTE  4ir 

found  that  they  had  affixed  a  very  different  meaning  to  their 
expressions.  In  all  matters  of  opinion  and  science,  the  case  is 
opposite;  the  difference  among  men  is  there  oftener  found  to  lie 
in  generals  than  in  particulars,  and  to  be  less  in  reality  than  in 
appearance.  An  explanation  of  the  terms  commonly  ends  the 
controversy,  and  the  disputants  are  surprised  to  find  that  they 
had  been  quarreling  while  at  bottom  they  agreed  in  their 
judgment.  .  .  . 

It  is  natural  for  us  to  seek  a  standard  of  taste;  a  rule  by  which 
the  various  sentiments  of  men  may  be  reconciled;  at  least  a  de- 
cision afforded,  confirming  one  sentiment  and  condemning 
another. 

There  is  a  species  of  philosophy  which  cuts  off  all  hopes  of 
success  in  such  an  attempt,  and  represents  the  impossibility 
of  ever  attaining  any  standard  of  taste.  The  difference,  it  is 
said,  is  very  wide  between  judgment  and  sentiment.  All  senti- 
ment is  right;  because  sentiment  has  a  reference  to  nothing 
beyond  itself,  and  is  always  real,  wherever  a  man  is  conscious 
of  it.  But  all  determinations  of  the  understanding  are  not  right, 
because  they  have  a  reference  to  something  beyond  themselves, 
-  to  wit,  real  matter  of  fact,  and  are  not  always  conformable 
to  that  standard.  Among  a  thousand  different  opinions  which 
different  men  may  entertain  of  the  same  subject,  there  is  one, 
and  but  one,  that  is  just  and  true,  and  the  only  difficulty  is  to 
fix  and  ascertain  it.  On  the  contrary,  a  thousand  different  sen- 
timents, excited  by  the  same  object,  are  all  right,  because  no 
sentiment  represents  what  is  really  in  the  object.  It  only  marks 
a  certain  conformity  or  relation  between  the  object  and  the  or- 
gans or  faculties  of  the  mind;  and  if  that  conformity  did  not 
really  exist,  the  sentiment  could  never  possibly  have  being. 
Beauty  is  no  quality  in  things  themselves;  it  exists  merely  in 
the  mind  which  contemplates  them;  and  each  mind  perceives 
a  different  beauty.  One  person  may  even  perceive  deformity, 
where  another  is  sensible  of  beauty;  and  every  individual  ought 
to  acquiesce  in  his  own  sentiment,  without  pretending  to  regu- 
late those  of  others.  To  seek  the  real  beauty,  or  real  deformity, 
is  as  fruitless  an  inquiry  as  to  pretend  to  ascertain  the  real  sweet 
or  real  bitter.  According  to  the  disposition  of  the  organs,  the 
same  object  may  be  both  sweet  and  bitter,  and  the  proverb 
has  justly  determined  it  to  be  fruitless  to  dispute  concerning 


4i2  DAVID  HUME 

tastes.  It  is  very  natural,  and  even  quite  necessary,  to  extend 
this  axiom  to  mental  as  well  as  bodily  taste;  and  thus  common 
sense,  which  is  so  often  at  variance  with  philosophy,  especially 
with  the  skeptical  kind,  is  found  in  one  instance  at  least  to  agree 
in  pronouncing  the  same  decision. 

But  though  this  axiom,  by  passing  into  a  proverb,  seems  to 
have  attained  the  sanction  of  common  sense,  there  is  certainly 
a  species  of  common  sense  which  opposes  it,  at  least  serves  to 
modify  and  restrain  it.  Whoever  would  assert  an  equality  of 
genius  and  elegance  between  Ogilby  and  Milton,  or  Bunyan  and 
Addison,  would  be  thought  to  defend  no  less  an  extravagance 
than  if  he  had  maintained  a  mole-hill  to  be  as  high  as  Teneriffe, 
or  a  pond  as  extensive  as  the  ocean.  Though  there  may  be 
found  persons  who  give  the  preference  to  the  former  authors,  no 
one  pays  attention  to  such  a  taste,  and  we  pronounce  without 
scruple  the  sentiment  of  these  pretended  critics  to  be  absurd 
and  ridiculous.  The  principle  of  the  natural  equality  of  tastes 
is  then  totally  forgot,  and  while  we  admit  it  on  some  occasions, 
where  the  objects  seem  near  an  equality,  it  appears  an  extrava- 
gant paradox,  or  rather  a  palpable  absurdity,  where  objects  so 
disproportioned  are  compared  together. 

It  is  evident  that  none  of  the  rules  of  composition  are  fixed 
by  reasonings  a  priori,  or  can  be  esteemed  abstract  conclusions 
of  the  understanding,  from  comparing  those  habitudes  and 
relations  of  ideas  which  are  eternal  and  immutable.  Their 
foundation  is  the  same  with  that  of  all  the  practical  sciences, 
experience;  nor  are  they  anything  but  general  observations  con- 
cerning what  has  been  universally  found  to  please  in  all  coun- 
tries and  in  all  ages.  Many  of  the  beauties  of  poetry  and  even 
of  eloquence  are  founded  on  falsehood  and  fiction,  on  hyper- 
boles, metaphors,  and  an  abuse  or  perversion  of  terms  from 
their  natural  meaning.  To  check  the  sallies  of  the  imagination, 
and  to  reduce  every  expression  to  geometrical  truth  and  exact- 
ness, would  be  the  most  contrary  to  the  laws  of  criticism,  be- 
cause it  would  produce  a  work  which,  by  universal  experience, 
has  been  found  the  most  insipid  and  disagreeable.  But  though 
poetry  can  never  submit  to  exact  truth,  it  must  be  confined  by 
rules  of  art,  discovered  to  the  author  either  by  genius  or  obser- 
vation. If  some  negligent  or  irregular  writers  have  pleased, 
they  have  not  pleased  by  their  transgressions  of  rule  or  order, 


THE  STANDARD  OF  TASTE  413 

but  in  spite  of  these  transgressions.  They  have  possessed  other 
beauties,  which  were  conformable  to  just  criticism,  and  the 
force  of  these  beauties  has  been  able  to  overpower  censure,  and 
give  the  mind  a  satisfaction  superior  to  the  disgust  arising 
from  the  blemishes.  Ariosto  pleases,  but  not  by  his  monstrous 
and  improbable  fictions,  by  his  bizarre  mixture  of  the  serious 
and  comic  styles,  by  the  want  of  coherence  in  his  stories,  or  by 
the  continual  interruptions  of  his  narration.  He  charms  by  the 
force  and  clearness  of  his  expression,  by  the  readiness  and 
variety  of  his  inventions,  and  by  his  natural  pictures  of  the  pas- 
sions, especially  those  of  the  gay  and  amorous  kind;  and  how- 
ever his  faults  may  diminish  our  satisfaction,  they  are  not  able 
entirely  to  destroy  it.  Did  our  pleasure  really  arise  from  those 
parts  of  his  poem  which  we  denominate  faults,  this  would  be 
no  objection  to  criticism  in  general;  it  would  only  be  an  objec- 
tion to  those  particular  rules  of  criticism  which  would  establish 
such  circumstances  to  be  faults,  and  would  represent  them  as 
universally  blamable.  If  they  are  found  to  please,  they  cannot 
be  faults,  let  the  pleasure  which  they  produce  be  ever  so  unex- 
pected and  unaccountable.  .  .  . 

The  same  Homer  who  pleased  at  Athens  and  Rome  two  thou- 
sand years  ago,  is  still  admired  at  Paris  and  at  London.  All  the 
changes  of  climate,  government,  religion,  and  language  have 
not  been  able  to  obscure  his  glory.  Authority  or  prejudice  may 
give  a  temporary  vogue  to  a  bad  poet  or  orator,  but  his  reputa- 
tion will  never  be  durable  or  general.  When  his  compositions 
are  examined  by  posterity  or  by  foreigners,  the  enchantment 
is  dissipated,  and  his  faults  appear  in  their  true  colors.  On  the 
contrary,  a  real  genius,  the  longer  his  works  endure,  and  the 
more  wide  they  are  spread,  the  more  sincere  is  the  admiration 
which  he  meets  with.  Envy  and  jealousy  have  too  much  place 
in  a  narrow  circle,  and  even  familiar  acquaintance  with  his 
person  may  diminish  the  applause  due  to  his  performances;  but 
when  these  obstructions  are  removed,  the  beauties,  which  are 
naturally  fitted  to  excite  agreeable  sentiments,  immediately 
display  their  energy,  and  while  the  world  endures  they  main- 
tain their  authority  over  the  minds  of  men. 

It  appears,  then,  that,  amidst  all  the  variety  and  caprice  of 
taste,  there  are  certain  general  principles  of  approbation  or 
blame,  whose  influence  a  careful  eye  may  trace  in  all  operations 


4i4  DAVID  HUME 

of  the  mind.  Some  particular  forms  or  qualities,  from  the 
original  structure  of  the  internal  fabric,  are  calculated  to 
please,  and  others  to  displease;  and  if  they  fail  of  their  effect  hi 
any  particular  instance,  it  is  from  some  apparent  defect  or  im- 
perfection in  the  organ.  A  man  in  a  fever  would  not  insist  on 
his  palate  as  able  to  decide  concerning  flavors,  nor  would  one 
affected  with  the  jaundice  pretend  to  give  a  verdict  with  regard 
to  colors.  In  each  creature  there  is  a  sound  and  a  defective 
state,  and  the  former  alone  can  be  supposed  to  afford  us  a  true 
standard  of  taste  and  sentiment.  If,  in  the  sound  state  of  the 
organ,  there  be  an  entire  or  a  considerable  uniformity  of  senti- 
ment among  men,  we  may  thence  derive  an  idea  of  the  perfect 
beauty;  in  like  manner  as  the  appearance  of  objects  in  day- 
light, to  the  eye  of  a  man  in  health,  is  denominated  their  true 
and  real  color,  even  while  color  is  allowed  to  be  merely  a  phan- 
tasm of  the  senses. 

Many  and  frequent  are  the  defects  in  the  internal  organs, 
which  prevent  or  weaken  the  influence  of  those  general  princi- 
ples on  which  depends  our  sentiment  of  beauty  or  deformity. 
Though  some  objects,  by  the  structure  of  the  mind,  be  natur- 
ally calculated  to  give  us  pleasure,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that 
in  every  individual  the  pleasure  will  be  equally  felt.  Particular 
incidents  and  situations  occur,  which  either  throw  a  false  light 
on  the  objects  or  hinder  the  true  from  conveying  to  the  imagin- 
ation the  proper  sentiment  and  perception. 

One  obvious  cause  why  many  feel  not  the  proper  sentiment 
of  beauty,  is  the  want  of  that  delicacy  of  imagination  which  is 
requisite  to  convey  a  sensibility  of  those  finer  emotions.  This 
delicacy  every  one  pretends  to;  everyone  talks  of  it;  and  would 
reduce  every  kind  of  taste  or  sentiment  to  its  standard.  But  as 
our  intention  in  this  essay  is  to  mingle  some  light  of  the  under- 
standing with  the  feelings  of  sentiment,  it  will  be  proper  to  give 
a  more  accurate  definition  of  delicacy  than  has  hitherto  been 
attempted.  And  not  to  draw  our  philosophy  from  too  profound 
a  source,  we  shall  have  recourse  to  a  noted  story  in  Don  Quixote. 

"It  is  with  good  reason,"  says  Sancho  to  the  squire  with  the 
great  nose,  "that  I  pretend  to  have  a  judgment  in  wine:  this  is 
a  quality  hereditary  in  our  family.  Two  of  my  kinsmen  were 
once  called  to  give  their  opinion  of  a  hogshead  which  was  sup- 
posed to  be  excellent,  being  old  and  of  a  good  vintage.  One  of 


THE  STANDARD  OF  TASTE  415 

them  tastes  it,  —  considers  it,  and,  after  mature  reflection,  pro- 
nounces the  wine  to  be  good,  were  it  not  for  a  small  taste  of 
leather  which  he  perceived  in  it.  The  other,  after  using  the 
same  precautions,  gives  also  his  verdict  in  favor  of  the  wine, 
but  with  the  reserve  of  a  taste  of  iron  which  he  could  easily  dis- 
tinguish. You  cannot  imagine  how  much  they  were  both  ridi- 
culed for  their  judgment.  But  who  laughed  in  the  end?  On 
emptying  the  hogshead,  there  was  found  at  the  bottom  an  old 
key  with  a  leathern  thong  tied  to  it." 

The  great  resemblance  between  mental  and  bodily  taste  will 
easily  teach  us  to  apply  this  story.  Though  it  be  certain  that 
beauty  and  deformity,  more  than  sweet  and  bitter,  are  not 
qualities  in  objects,  but  belong  entirely  to  the  sentiment,  in- 
ternal or  external,  it  must  be  allowed  that  there  are  certain 
qualities  in  objects  which  are  fitted  by  nature  to  produce  those 
particular  feelings.  Now  as  these  qualities  may  be  found  in  a 
small  degree,  or  may  be  mixed  and  confounded  with  each  other, 
it  often  happens  that  the  taste  is  not  affected  with  such  minute 
qualities,  or  is  not  able  to  distinguish  all  the  particular  flavors, 
amidst  the  disorder  in  which  they  are  presented.  Where  the 
organs  are  so  fine  as  to  allow  nothing  to  escape  them,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  exact  as  to  perceive  every  ingredient  in  the  com- 
position, this  we  call  delicacy  of  taste,  whether  we  employ  these 
terms  in  the  literal  or  metaphorical  sense.  Here  then  the  gen- 
eral rules  of  beauty  are  of  use,  being  drawn  from  established 
models,  and  from  the  observation  of  what  pleases  or  displeases, 
when  presented  singly  and  in  a  high  degree.  And  if  the  same 
qualities,  in  a  continued  composition  and  in  a  smaller  degree, 
affect  not  the  organs  with  a  sensible  delight  or  uneasiness,  we 
exclude  the  person  from  all  pretensions  to  this  delicacy.  To 
produce  these  general  rules  or  avowed  patterns  of  composition 
is  like  finding  the  key  with  the  leathern  thong,  which  justified 
the  verdict  of  Sancho's  kinsmen,  and  confounded  those  pre- 
tended judges  who  had  condemned  them.  Though  the  hogs- 
head had  never  been  emptied,  the  taste  of  the  one  was  still 
equally  delicate,  and  that  of  the  other  equally  dull  and  languid; 
but  it  would  have  been  more  difficult  to  have  proved  the  superi- 
ority of  the  former,  to  the  conviction  of  even*  bystander.  In 
like  manner,  though  the  beauties  of  writing  had  never  been 
methodized  or  reduced  to  general  principles,  though  no  excel- 


'416  DAVID  HUME 

lent  models  had  ever  been  acknowledged,  the  different  degrees 
of  taste  would  still  have  subsisted,  and  the  judgment  of  one 
man  been  preferable  to  that  of  another;  but  it  would  not  have 
been  so  easy  to  silence  the  bad  critic,  who  might  always  insist 
upon  his  particular  sentiment,  and  refuse  to  submit  to  his  an- 
tagonist. But  when  we  show  him  an  avowed  principle  of  art; 
when  we  illustrate  this  principle  by  examples  whose  operation, 
from  his  own  particular  taste,  he  acknowledges  to  be  conform- 
able to  the  principle;  when  we  prove  that  the  same  principle 
may  be  applied  to  the  present  case,  where  he  did  not  perceive 
or  feel  its  influence,  —  he  must  conclude,  upon  the  whole,  that 
the  fault  lies  in  himself,  and  that  he  wants  the  delicacy  which 
is  requisite  to  make  him  sensible  of  every  beauty  and  every 
blemish  in  any  composition  or  discourse. 

It  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  perfection  of  every  sense  or 
faculty,  to  perceive  with  exactness  its  most  minute  objects, 
and  allow  nothing  to  escape  its  notice  and  observation.  The 
smaller  the  objects  are  which  become  sensible  to  the  eye,  the 
finer  is  that  organ  and  the  more  elaborate  its  make  and  com- 
position. A  good  palate  is  not  tried  by  strong  flavors,  but  by 
a  mixture  of  small  ingredients,  where  we  are  still  sensible  of 
each  part,  notwithstanding  its  minuteness  and  its  confusion 
with  the  rest.  In  like  manner,  a  quick  and  acute  perception  of 
beauty  and  deformity  must  be  the  perfection  of  our  mental 
taste;  nor  can  a  man  be  satisfied  with  himself  while  he  suspects 
that  any  excellence  or  blemish  in  a  discourse  has  passed  him 
unobserved.  In  this  case  the  perfection  of  the  man,  and  the 
perfection  of  the  sense  or  feeling,  are  found  to  be  united.  A 
very  delicate  palate,  on  many  occasions,  may  be  a  great  incon- 
venience both  to  a  man  himself  and  to  his  friends.  But  a  deli- 
cate taste  of  wit  or  beauty  must  always  be  a  desirable  quality, 
because  it  is  the  source  of  all  the  finest  and  most  innocent 
enjoyments  of  which  human  nature  is  susceptible.  In  this 
decision  the  sentiments  of  all  mankind  are  agreed.  Wherever 
you  can  ascertain  a  delicacy  of  taste,  it  is  sure  to  meet  with 
approbation ;  and  the  best  way  of  ascertaining  it  is  to  appeal  to 
those  models  and  principles  which  have  been  established  by  the 
uniform  consent  and  experience  of  nations  and  ages.  .  .  . 

Though  the  principles  of  taste  be  universal,  and  nearly,  if  not 
entirely,  the  same  in  all  men,  yet  few  are  qualified  to  give  judg- 


MY  OWN  LIFE  417 

ment  on  any  work  of  art,  or  establish  their  own  sentiment  as 
the  standard  of  beauty.  The  organs  of  internal  sensation  are 
seldom  so  perfect  as  to  allow  the  general  principles  their  full 
play,  and  produce  a  feeling  correspondent  to  those  principles. 
They  either  labor  under  some  defect,  or  are  vitiated  by  some 
disorder;  and  by  that  means  excite  a  sentiment  which  may  be 
pronounced  erroneous.  When  the  critic  has  no  delicacy,  he 
judges  without  any  distinction,  and  is  only  affected  by  the 
grosser  and  more  palpable  qualities  of  the  object;  the  finer 
touches  pass  unnoticed  and  disregarded.  Where  he  is  not  aided 
by  practice,  his  verdict  is  attended  with  confusion  and  hesita- 
tion. Where  no  comparison  has  been  employed,  the  most 
frivolous  beauties,  such  as  rather  merit  the  name  of  defects, 
are  the  object  of  his  admiration.  Where  he  lies  under  the  influ- 
ence of  prejudice,  all  his  natural  sentiments  are  perverted. 
Where  good  sense  is  wanting,  he  is  not  qualified  to  discern  the 
beauties  of  design  and  reasoning,  which  are  the  highest  and 
most  excellent.  Under  some  or  other  of  these  imperfections 
the  generality  of  men  labor,  and  hence  a  true  judge  in  the  finer 
arts  is  observed,  even  during  the  most  polished  ages,  to  be  so 
rare  a  character.  Strong  sense,  united  to  delicate  sentiment, 
improved  by  practice,  perfected  by  comparison,  and  cleared  of 
all  prejudice,  can  alone  entitle  critics  to  this  valuable  charac- 
ter; and  the  joint  verdict  of  such,  wherever  they  are  to  be 
found,  is  the  true  standard  of  taste  and  beauty.  .  .  . 


MY  OWN  LIFE 
1777 

[The  autobiographical  sketch  here  represented  was  dated  April  18, 1776, 
some  four  months  before  Hume's  death,  and  was  published  the  following 
year  as  a  pamphlet  called  The  Life  of  David  Hume,  Esq.;  uriUen  by  himself. 
In  a  codicil  to  his  will  Hume  desired  that  it  might  be  prefixed  to  his  col- 
lected works.] 

...  I  HAD  always  entertained  a  notion  that  my  want  of 
success  in  publishing  the  Treatise  of  Human  Nature  had  pro- 
ceeded more  from  the  manner  than  the  matter,  and  that  I  had 
been  guilty  of  a  very  usual  indiscretion  in  going  to  the  press 
too  early.  I  therefore  cast  the  first  part  of  that  work  anew  in 


4i8  DAVID  HUME 

the  Inquiry  concerning  Human  Understanding,  which  was  pub- 
lished while  I  was  at  Turin.  But  this  piece  was  at  first  little 
more  successful  than  the  Treatise  of  Human  Nature,  On  my 
return  from  Italy  I  had  the  mortification  to  find  all  England  in 
a  ferment  on  account  of  Dr.  Middleton's  Free  Inquiry,  while 
my  performance  was  entirely  overlooked  and  neglected.  A  new 
edition,  which  had  been  published  at  London,  of  my  Essays, 
Moral  and  Political,  met  not  with  a  much  better  reception. 

Such  is  the  force  of  natural  temper  that  these  disappoint- 
ments made  little  or  no  impression  on  me.  I  went  down  in 
1749,  and  lived  two  years  with  my  brother  at  his  country  house, 
for  my  mother  was  now  dead.  I  there  composed  the  second 
part  of  my  Essays,  which  I  called  Political  Discourses,  and  also 
my  Inquiry  concerning  the  Principles  of  Morals,  which  is  an- 
other part  of  my  treatise  that  I  cast  anew.  Meanwhile  my 
bookseller,  A.  Millar,  informed  me  that  my  former  publications 
(all  but  the  unfortunate  Treatise)  were  beginning  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation,  that  the  sale  of  them  was  gradually  in- 
creasing, and  that  new  editions  were  demanded.  Answers  by 
Reverends  and  Right  Reverends  came  out  two  or  three  in  a 
year,  and  I  found,  by  Dr.  Warburton's  railing,  that  the  books 
were  beginning  to  be  esteemed  in  good  company.  However,  I 
had  fixed  a  resolution,  which  I  inflexibly  maintained,  never  to 
reply  to  anybody;  a,nd  not  being  very  irascible  in  my  temper,  I 
have  easily  kept  myself  clear  of  all  literary  squabbles.  These 
symptoms  of  a  rising  reputation  gave  me  encouragement,  as  I 
was  ever  more  disposed  to  see  the  favorable  than  unfavorable 
side  of  things,  —  a  turn  of  mind  which  it  is  more  happy  to  pos- 
sess, than  to  be  born  to  an  estate  of  ten  thousand  a  year.  .  .  . 

In  1752  the  Faculty  of  Advocates  chose  me  their  Librarian, 
an  office  from  which  I  received  little  or  no  emolument,  but 
which  gave  me  the  command  of  a  large  library.  I  then  formed 
the  plan  of  writing  the  History  of  England ;  but  being  frightened 
with  the  notion  of  continuing  a  narrative  through  a  period  of 
1700  years,  I  commenced  with  the  accession  of  the  House  of 
Stuart,  an  epoch  when,  I  thought,  the  misrepresentations  of  fac- 
tion began  chiefly  to  take  place.  I  was,  I  own,  sanguine  in  my 
expectations  of  the  success  of  this  work.  I  thought  that  I  was 
the  only  historian  that  had  at  once  neglected  present  power, 
interest,  and  authority,  and  the  cry  of  popular  prejudices;  and 


\ 
MY  OWN  LIFE  4IQ 

as  the  subject  was  suited  to  every  capacity,  I  expected  propor- 
tional applause.  But  miserable  was  my  disappointment:  I  was 
assailed  by  one  cry  of  reproach,  disapprobation,  and  even  detes- 
tation; English,  Scotch,  and  Irish,  Whig  and  Tory,  churchman 
and  sectary,  free-thinker  and  religionist,  patriot  and  courtier, 
united  in  their  rage  against  the  man  who  had  presumed  to  shed 
a  generous  tear  for  the  fate  of  Charles  I  and  the  Earl  of  Straf- 
ford;  and  after  the  first  ebullitions  of  their  fury  were  over,  what 
was  still  more  mortifying,  the  book  seemed  to  sink  into  obliv- 
ion. Mr.  Millar  told  me  that  in  a  twelvemonth  he  sold  only 
forty-five  copies  of  it.  ... 

In  1756,  two  years  after  the  fall  of  the  first  volume,  was  pub- 
lished the  second  volume  of  my  History,  containing  the  period 
from  the  death  of  Charles  I  till  the  Revolution.  This  perfor- 
mance happened  to  give  less  displeasure  to  the  Whigs,  and  was 
better  received.  It  not  only  rose  itself,  but  helped  to  buoy  up 
its  unfortunate  brother.  But  though  I  had  been  taught  by 
experience  that  the  Whig  party  were  in  possession  of  bestow- 
ing all  places,  both  in  the  state  and  in  literature,  I  was  so  little 
inclined  to  yield  to  their  senseless  clamor,  that  in  about  a 
hundred  alterations,  which  farther  study,  reading,  or  reflection 
engaged  me  to  make,  in  the  reigns  of  the  first  two  Stuarts,  I 
have  made  all  of  them  invariably  to  the  Tory  side.  .  .  . 

I  returned  to  Edinburgh  in  1769,  very  opulent  (for  I  possessed 
a  revenue  of  £1000  a  year),  healthy,  and,  though  somewhat 
stricken  in  years,  with  the  prospect  of  enjoying  long  my  ease, 
and  of  seeing  the  increase  of  my  reputation.  In  spring  1775  I 
was  struck  with  a  disorder  in  my  bowels,  which  at  first  gave  me 
no  alarm,  but  has  since,  as  I  apprehend  it,  become  mortal  and 
incurable.  I  now  reckon  upon  a  speedy  dissolution.  I  have  suf- 
fered very  little  pain  from  my  disorder;  and  what  is  more 
strange,  have,  notwithstanding  the  great  decline  of  my  per- 
son, never  suffered  a  moment's  abatement  of  my  spirits;  inso- 
much that,  were  I  to  name  the  period  of  my  life  which  I  should 
most  choose  to  pass  over  again,  I  might  be  tempted  to  point  to 
this  latter  period.  I  possess  the  same  ardor  as  ever  in  study, 
and  the  same  gayety  in  company.  I  consider,  besides,  that  a 
man  of  sixty-five,  by  dying,  cuts  off  only  a  few  years  of  infirmi- 
ties ;  and  though  I  see  many  symptoms  of  my  literary  reputa- 
tion's breaking  out  at  last  with  additional  lustre,  I  know  that  I 


420  DAVID   HUME 

could  have  but  few  years  to  enjoy  it.  It  is  difficult  to  be  more 
detached  from  life  than  I  am  at  present. 

To  conclude  historically  with  my  own  character.  I  am,  or 
rather  was  (for  that  is  the  style  I  must  now  use  in  speaking  of 
myself,  which  emboldens  me  the  more  to  speak  my  sentiments), 
—  I  was,  I  say,  a  man  of  mild  dispositions,  of  command  of 
temper,  of  an  open,  social,  and  cheerful  humor,  capable  of  at- 
tachment, but  little  susceptible  of  enmity,  and  of  great  mod- 
eration in  all  my  passions.  Even  my  love  of  literary  fame,  my 
ruling  passion,  never  soured  my  temper,  notwithstanding  my 
frequent  disappointments.  My  company  was  not  unacceptable 
to  the  young  and  careless,  as  well  as  to  the  studious  and  literary; 
and  as  I  took  a  particular  pleasure  in  the  company  of  modest 
women,  I  had  no  reason  to  be  displeased  with  the  reception  I 
met  with  from  them.  In  a  word,  though  most  men  anywise  emi- 
nent have  found  reason  to  complain  of  calumny,  I  never  was 
touched,  or  even  attacked,  by  her  baleful  tooth;  and  though  I 
wantonlj'  exposed  myself  to  the  rage  of  both  civil  and  religious 
factions,  they  seemed  to  be  disarmed  in  my  behalf  of  their 
wonted  fury.  My  friends  never  had  occasion  to  vindicate  any 
one  circumstance  of  my  character  and  conduct;  not  but  that 
the  zealots,  we  may  well  suppose,  would  have  been  glad  to 
invent  and  propagate  any  story  to  my  disadvantage,  but  they 
could  never  find  any  which  they  thought  would  wear  the  face 
of  probability.  I  cannot  say  there  is  no  vanity  in  making  this 
funeral  oration  of  myself,  but  I  hope  it  is  not  a  misplaced  one; 
and  this  is  a  matter  of  fact  which  is  easily  cleared  and  ascer- 
tained. 


SIR  JOSHUA   REYNOLDS 
[ESSAY  ON   THE   IDEA  OF  BEAUTY] 
1759 

[This  essay  is  one  of  three  contributed  to  The  Idler  by  Reynolds,  from 
his  friendship  for  Dr.  Johnson;  the  other  two  being  Numbers  76  and  79. 
His  discussion  of  the  present  subject  is  significant  as  representing  that  idea 
of  the  general  as  the  fundamental  element  in  art,  which  dominated  a  great 
part  of  eighteenth-century  aesthetics,  and  affected  both  the  painting  and 
the  poetry  of  the  period.] 

No.  82.    NOVEMBER  10,  1759 

DISCOURSING  in  my  last  letter  on  the  different  practice  of  the 
Italian  and  Dutch  painters,  I  observed  that  "the  Italian 
painter  attends  only  to  the  invariable,  the  great  and  general 
ideas  which  are  fixed  and  inherent  in  universal  nature."  I  was 
led  into  the  subject  of  this  letter  by  endeavoring  to  fix  the  ori- 
ginal cause  of  this  conduct  of  the  Italian  masters.  If  it  can  be 
proved  that  by  this  choice  they  selected  the  most  beautiful  part 
of  the  creation,  it  will  show  how  much  their  principles  are 
founded  on  reason,  and,  at  the  same  time,  discover  the  origin 
of  our  ideas  of  beauty. 

I  suppose  it  will  be  easily  granted  that  no  man  can  judge 
whether  any  animal  be  beautiful  in  its  kind,  or  deformed,  who 
has  seen  only  one  of  that  species.  That  is  as  conclusive  in  re- 
gard to  the  human  figure;  so  that  if  a  man  born  blind  was  to 
recover  his  sight,  and  the  most  beautiful  woman  was  brought 
before  him,  he  could  not  determine  whether  she  was  handsome 
or  not;  nor,  if  the  most  beautiful  and  most  deformed  were  pro- 
duced, could  he  any  better  determine  to  which  he  should  give 
the  preference,  having  seen  only  those  two.  To  distinguish 
beauty,  then,  implies  the  having  seen  many  individuals  of  that 
species.  If  it  is  asked,  how  is  more  skill  acquired  by  the  obser- 
vation of  greater  numbers?  I  answer  that,  in  consequence  of 
having  seen  many,  the  power  is  acquired,  even  without  seek- 
ing after  it,  of  distinguishing  between  accidental  blemishes 
and  excrescences,  which  are  continually  varying  the  surface  of 


422  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS 

Nature's  works,  and  the  invariable  general  form  which  Nature 
most  frequently  produces  and  always  seems  to  intend  in  her 
productions. 

Thus  amongst  the  blades  of  grass  or  leaves  of  the  same  tree, 
though  no  two  can  be  found  exactly  alike,  yet  the  general  form 
is  invariable.  A  naturalist,  before  he  chose  one  as  a  sample, 
would  examine  many;  since,  if  he  took  the  first  that  occurred, 
it  might  have,  by  accident  or  otherwise,  such  a  form  as  that  it 
would  scarcely  be  known  to  belong  to  that  species.  He  selects, 
as  the  painter  does,  the  most  beautiful  —  that  is,  the  most 
general  —  form  of  nature. 

Every  species  of  the  animal,  as  well  as  the  vegetable,  crea- 
tion, may  be  said  to  have  a  fixed  or  determinate  form,  towards 
which  Nature  is  continually  inclining,  like  various  lines  ter- 
minating in  the  centre;  or  it  may  be  compared  to  pendulums, 
vibrating  in  different  directions  over  one  central  point;  and  as 
they  all  cross  the  centre,  though  only  one  passes  through  any 
other  point,  so  it  will  be  found  that  perfect  beauty  is  oftener 
produced  by  Nature  than  deformity,  —  I  do  not  mean  than 
deformity  in  general,  but  than  any  one  kind  of  deformity.  To 
instance  in  a  particular  part  of  a  feature :  the  line  that  forms  the 
ridge  of  the  nose  is  beautiful  when  it  is  straight;  this,  then,  is 
the  central  form,  which  is  oftener  found  than  either  concave, 
convex,  or  any  other  irregular  form  that  shall  be  proposed.  As 
we  are  then  more  accustomed  to  beauty  than  deformity,  we 
may  conclude  that  to  be  the  reason  why  we  approve  and  ad- 
mire it,  as  we  approve  and  admire  customs  and  fashions  of 
dress  for  no  other  reason  than  that  we  are  used  to  them;  so 
that,  though  habit  and  custom  cannot  be  said  to  be  the  cause  of 
beauty,  it  is  certainly  the  cause  of  our  liking  it.  And  I  have  no 
doubt  but  that,  if  we  were  more  used  to  deformity  than  beauty, 
deformity  would  then  lose  the  idea  now  annexed  to  it,  and  take 
that  of  beauty;  as,  if  the  whole  world  should  agree  that  yes  and 
no  should  change  their  meanings,  yes  would  then  deny,  and  no 
would  affirm. 

Whoever  undertakes  to  proceed  farther  in  this  argument, 
and  endeavors  to  fix  a  general  criterion  of  beauty  respecting 
different  species,  or  to  show  why  one  species  is  more  beautiful 
than  another,  it  will  be  required  from  him  first  to  prove  that 
one  species  is  really  more  beautiful  than  another.  That  we  pre- 


THE  IDEA  OF  BEAUTY  423 

fer  one  to  the  other,  and  with  very  good  reason,  will  be  readily 
granted;  but  it  does  not  follow  from  thence  that  we  think  it  a 
more  beautiful  form,  for  we  have  no  criterion  of  form  by  which 
to  determine  our  judgment.  He  who  says  a  swan  is  more  beau- 
tiful than  a  dove,  means  little  more  than  that  he  has  more 
pleasure  in  seeing  a  swan  than  a  dove,  either  from  the  stateliness 
of  its  motions  or  its  being  a  more  rare  bird.  And  he  who  gives 
the  preference  to  the  dove,  does  it  from  some  association  of 
ideas  of  innocence  that  he  always  annexes  to  the  dove;  but  if 
he  pretends  to  defend  the  preference  he  gives  to  one  or  the 
other,  by  endeavoring  to  prove  that  this  more  beautiful  form 
proceeds  from  a  particular  gradation  of  magnitude,  undulation 
of  a  curve,  or  direction  of  a  line,  or  whatever  other  conceit  of  his 
imagination  he  shall  fix  on  as  a  criterion  of  form,  he  will  be  con- 
tinually contradicting  himself,  and  find  at  last  that  the  great 
mother  of  nature  will  not  be  subjected  to  such  narrow  rules. 
Among  the  various  reasons  why  we  prefer  one  part  of  her  works 
to  another,  the  most  general,  I  believe,  is  habit  and  custom. 
Custom  makes,  in  a  certain  sense,  white  black,  and  black 
white;  it  is  custom  a.lone  determines  our  preference  of  the  color 
of  the  Europeans  to  the  Ethiopians,  and  they,  for  the  same 
reason,  prefer  their  own  color  to  ours.  I  suppose  nobody  will 
doubt,  if  one  of  their  painters  were  to  paint  the  goddess  of 
beauty,  but  that  he  would  represent  her  black,  with  thick  lips, 
flat  nose,  and  woolly  hair.  And  it  seems  to  me  he  would  act 
very  unnaturally  if  he  did  not;  for  by  what  criterion  will  any 
one  dispute  the  propriety  of  his  idea?  We  indeed  say  that  the 
form  and  color  of  the  European  is  preferable  to  that  of  the 
Ethiopian;  but  I  know  of  no  other  reason  we  have  for  it,  but 
that  we  are  more  accustomed  to  it.  It  is  absurd  to  say  that 
beauty  is  possessed  of  attractive  powers,  which  irresistibly  seize 
the  corresponding  mind  with  love  and  admiration,  since  that 
argument  is  equally  conclusive  in  the  favor  of  the  white  and  the 
black  philosopher.  The  black  and  white  nations  must,  in  re- 
spect of  beauty,  be  considered  as  of  different  kinds,  at  least 
a  different  species  of  the  same  kind;  from  one  of  which  to  the 
other,  as  I  observed,  no  inference  can  be  drawn. 

Novelty  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  causes  of  beauty.  That  nov- 
elty is  a  very  sufficient  reason  why  we  should  admire,  is  not 
denied;  but  because  it  is  uncommon,  is  it  therefore  beautiful? 


424  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS 

The  beauty  that  is  produced  by  color,  as  when  we  prefer  one 
bird  to  another,  though  of  the  same  form,  on  account  of  its 
color,  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  argument,  which  reaches  only 
to  form.  I  have  here  considered  the  word  beauty  as  being  prop- 
erly applied  to  form  alone.  There  is  a  necessity  of  fixing  this 
confined  sense;  for  there  can  be  no  argument,  if  the  sense  of  the 
word  is  extended  to  everything  that  is  approved.  A  rose  may 
as  well  be  said  to  be  beautiful  because  it  has  a  fine  smell,  as  a 
bird  because  of  its  color.  When  we  apply  the  word  beauty,  we 
do  not  mean  always  by  it  a  more  beautiful  form,  but  something 
valuable  on  account  of  its  rarity,  usefulness,  color,  or  any  other 
property.  A  horse  is  said  to  be  a  beautiful  animal;  but,  had  a 
horse  as  few  good  qualities  as  a  tortoise,  I  do  not  imagine  thai 
he  would  be  then  esteemed  beautiful. 

A  fitness  to  the  end  proposed  is  said  to  be  another  cause  of 
beauty.  But  supposing  we  were  proper  judges  of  what  form  is 
the  most  proper  in  an  animal  to  constitute  strength  or  swift- 
ness, we  always  determine  concerning  its  beauty  before  we 
exert  our  understanding  to  judge  of  its  fitness. 

From  what  has  been  said  it  may  be  inferred  that  the  works  of 
nature,  if  we  compare  one  species  with  another,  are  all  equally 
beautiful;  and  that  preference  is  given  from  custom,  or  some 
association  of  ideas;  and  that,  in  creatures  of  the  same  species, 
beauty  is  the  medium  or  centre  of  all  its  various  forms.  To 
conclude,  then,  by  way  of  corollary:  if  it  has  been  proved  that 
the  painter,  by  attending  to  the  invariable  and  general  ideas  of 
nature,  produces  beauty,  he  must,  by  regarding  minute  par- 
ticularities and  accidental  discriminations,  deviate  from  the 
universal  rule,  and  pollute  his  canvas  with  deformity. 


LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS 

[These  Letters,  representing  the  most  brilliant  political  invective  of 
English  historical  literature,  appeared  in  the  Public  Advertiser  between 
November  1 768  and  January  1772  (the  first  of  the  letters  which  reappeared 
in  the  collected  edition  was  that  of  January  21, 1769).  They  were  partially 
collected  for  publication  in  book  form  in  1769;  the  corrected  author's 
edition  appeared  in  1772.  The  authorship  has  remained  a  secret  to  this 
day,  having  been  attributed,  at  various  times,  to  some  forty  different  per- 
sons. The  most  prevalent  theory,  however,  has  been  that  Junius  was  Sir 
Philip  Francis  (1740-1818).  (See,  for  discussions  of  the  subject,  the  article 
on  Junius  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  and  Leslie  Stephen's  article  on 
Francis  in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography.)  Whoever  Junius  was, 
he  represented  that  branch  of  the  Whigs  which  was  especially  attached 
to  George  GrenviUe  and  his  brother  Lord  Temple.  The  letters  created  no 
small  excitement  in  political  circles,  at  the  time  of  publication;  the  chief 
sensation  was  due  to  the  letter  to  the  King,  of  December  19,  1769,  a  part 
of  which  is  reprinted  below.] 

TO  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  BEDFORD 

September  19,  1769. 
MY  LORD: 

You  are  so  little  accustomed  to  receive  any  marks  of  respect 
or  esteem  from  the  public,  that  if,  in  the  following  lines,  a  com- 
pliment or  expression  of  applause  should  escape  me,  I  fear  you 
would  consider  it  as  a  mockery  of  your  established  character, 
and  perhaps  an  insult  to  your  understanding.  You  have  nice 
feelings,  my  Lord,  if  we  may  judge  from  your  resentments. 
Cautious,  therefore,  of  giving  offense  where  you  have  so  little 
deserved  it,  I  shall  leave  the  illustration  of  your  virtues  to  other 
hands.  Your  friends  have  a  privilege  to  play  upon  the  easiness 
of  your  temper,  or  possibly  they  are  better  acquainted  with 
your  good  qualities  than  I  am.  You  have  done  good  by  stealth. 
The  rest  is  upon  record.  You  have  still  left  ample  room  for 
speculation,  when  panegyric  is  exhausted. 

You  are  indeed  a  very  considerable  man.  The  highest  rank, 
a  splendid  fortune,  and  a  name  glorious,  till  it  was  yours,  were 
sufficient  to  have  supported  you  with  meaner  abilities  than  I 
think  you  possess.  From  the  first,  you  derived  a  constitutional 
claim  to  respect;  from  the  second,  a  natural  extensive  author- 


426  LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS 

ity;  the  last  created  a  partial  expectation  of  hereditary  virtues. 
•The  use  you  have  made  of  these  uncommon  advantages  might 
have  been  more  honorable  to  yourself,  but  could  not  be  more 
instructive  to  mankind.  We  may  trace  it  in  the  veneration  of 
your  country,  the  choice  of  your  friends,  and  in  the  accomplish- 
ment  of  every  sanguine  hope  which  the  public  might  have  con- 
ceived from  the  illustrious  name  of  Russell. 

The  eminence  of  your  station  gave  you  a  commanding  pros- 
pect of  your  duty.  The  road  which  led  to  honor  was  open  to 
your  view.  You  could  not  lose  it  by  mistake,  and  you  had  no 
temptation  to  depart  from  it  by  design.  Compare  the  natural 
dignity  and  importance  of  the  richest  peer  of  England,  the 
noble  independence  which  he  might  have  maintained  in  Par- 
liament, and  the  real  interest  and  respect  which  he  might  have 
acquired,  not  only  in  Parliament,  but  through  the  whole  king- 
dom,—  compare  these  glorious  distinctions  with  the  ambition 
of  holding  a  share  in  government,  the  emoluments  of  a  place, 
the  sale  of  a  borough,  or  the  purchase  of  a  corporation;  and, 
though  you  may  not  regret  the  virtues  which  create  respect, 
you  may  see  with  anguish  how  much  real  importance  and  au- 
thority you  have  lost.  Consider  the  character  of  an  inde- 
pendent, virtuous  Duke  of  Bedford;  imagine  what  he  might 
be  in  this  country;  then  reflect  one  moment  upon  what  you 
are. 

If  it  be  possible  for  me  to  withdraw  my  attention  from  the 
fact,  I  will  tell  you  in  theory  what  such  a  man  might  be.  Con- 
scious of  his  own  weight  and  importance,  his  conduct  in  Parlia- 
ment would  be  directed  by  nothing  but  the  constitutional  duty 
of  a  peer.  He  would  consider  himself  as  a  guardian  of  the  laws. 
Willing  to  support  the  just  measures  of  government,  but  de- 
termined to  observe  the  conduct  of  the  minister  with  suspicion, 
he  would  oppose  the  violence  of  faction  with  as  much  firmness 
as  the  encroachments  of  prerogative.  He  would  be  as  little 
capable  of  bargaining  with  the  minister  for  places  for  himself 
or  his  dependents,  as  of  descending  to  mix  himself  in  the  in- 
trigues of  opposition.  Whenever  an  important  question  called 
for  his  opinion  in  Parliament,  he  would  be  heard  by  the  most 
profligate  minister  with  deference  and  respect.  His  authority 
would  either  sanctify  or  disgrace  the  measures  of  government. 
The  people  would  look  up  to  him  as  their  protector,  and  a 


LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS  427 

virtuous  prince  would  have  one  honest  man  in  his  do- 
minions, in  whose  integrity  and  judgment  he  might  safely 
confide.  .  .  . 

Your  Grace  may  probably  discover  something  more  intelli- 
gible in  the  negative  part  of  this  illustrious  character.  The  man 
I  have  described  would  never  prostitute  his  dignity  in  Parlia- 
ment by  an  indecent  violence,  either  in  opposing  or  defending 
a  minister.  He  would  not  at  one  moment  rancorously  perse- 
cute, at  another  basely  cringe  to,  the  favorite  of  his  sovereign. 
After  outraging  the  royal  dignity  with  peremptory  conditions, 
little  short  of  menace  and  hostility,  he  would  never  descend  to 
the  humility  of  soliciting  an  interview  with  the  favorite,  and  of 
offering  to  recover,  at  any  price,  the  honor  of  his  friendship. 
Though  deceived,  perhaps,  in  his  youth,  he  would  not,  through 
the  course  of  a  long  life,  have  invariably  chosen  his  friends  from 
among  the  most  profligate  of  mankind.  His  own  honor  would 
have  forbidden  him  from  mixing  his  private  pleasures  or  con- 
versation with  jockeys,  gamesters,  blasphemers,  gladiators,  or 
buffoons.  He  would  then  have  never  felt,  much  less  would  he 
have  submitted  to,  the  dishonest  necessity  of  engaging  in  the 
interest  and  intrigues  of  his  dependents,  —  of  supplying  their 
vices,  or  relieving  their  beggary,  at  the  expense  of  his  coun- 
try.  .  .  . 

A  great  man,  in  the  success  and  even  in  the  magnitude  of  his 
crimes,  finds  a  rescue  from  contempt.  Your  Grace  is  every  way 
unfortunate.  ...  It  may,  perhaps,  be  a  pleasure  to  reflect 
that  there  is  hardly  a  corner  of  any  of  His  Majesty's  dominions, 
except  France,  in  which,  at  one  time  or  other,  your  valuable 
life  has  not  been  in  danger.  Amiable  man !  we  see  and  acknow- 
ledge the  protection  of  Providence,  by  which  you  have  so  often 
escaped  the  personal  detestation  of  your  fellow-subjects,  and 
are  still  reserved  for  the  public  justice  of  your  country.  .  .  . 

TO  THE   PRINTER  OF    THE    PUBLIC  ADVERTISER 

December  19,  1769. 
SIR: 

When  the  complaints  of  a  brave  and  powerful  people  are  ob- 
served to  increase  in  proportion  to  the  wrongs  they  have  suf- 
fered; when,  instead  of  sinking  into  submission,  they  are  roused 
to  resistance,  the  time  will  soon  arrive  at  which  every  inferior 


428  LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS 

consideration  must  yield  to  the  security  of  the  sovereign  and 
to  the  general  safety  of  the  state.  There  is  a  moment  of  diffi- 
culty and  danger,  at  which  flattery  and  falsehood  can  no  longer 
deceive,  and  simplicity  itself  can  no  longer  be  misled.  Let  us 
suppose  it  arrived:  let  us  suppose  a  gracious,  well-intentioned 
prince  made  sensible,  at  last,  of  the  great  duty  he  owes  to  his 
people,  and  of  his  own  disgraceful  situation;  that  he  looks 
round  him  for  assistance,  and  asks  for  no  advice  but  how  to 
gratify  the  wishes  and  secure  the  happiness  of  his  subjects.  In 
these  circumstances,  it  may  be  matter  of  curious  speculation  to 
consider,  if  an  honest  man  were  permitted  to  approach  a  king, 
in  what  terms  he  would  address  himself  to  his  sovereign.  Let  it 
be  imagined,  no  matter  how  improbable,  that  the  first  prejudice 
against  his  character  is  removed,  that  the  ceremonious  diffi- 
culties of  an  audience  are  surmounted;  that  he  feels  himself 
animated  by  the  purest  and  most  honorable  affections  to  his 
king  and  country;  and  that  the  great  person  whom  he  addresses 
has  spirit  enough  to  bid  him  speak  freely,  and  understanding 
enough  to  listen  to  him  with  attention.  Unacquainted  with  the 
vain  impertinence  of  forms,  he  would  deliver  his  sentiments 
with  dignity  and  firmness,  but  not  without  respect. 

SIR:  It  is  the  misfortune  of  your  life,  and  originally  the  cause 
of  every  reproach  and  distress  which  has  attended  your  gov- 
ernment, that  you  should  never  have  been  acquainted  with  the 
language  of  truth,  until  you  heard  it  in  the  complaints  of  your 
people.  It  is  not,  however,  too  late  to  correct  the  error  of  your 
education.  We  are  still  inclined  to  make  an  indulgent  allow- 
ance for  the  pernicious  lessons  you  received  in  your  youth,  and 
to  form  the  most  sanguine  hopes  from  the  natural  benevolence 
of  your  disposition.  We  are  far  from  thinking  you  capable  of  a 
direct,  deliberate  purpose  to  invade  those  original  rights  of 
your  subjects,  on  which  all  their  civil  and  political  liberties 
depend.  Had  it  been  possible  for  us  to  entertain  a  suspicion 
so  dishonorable  to  your  character,  we  should  long  since  have 
adopted  a  style  of  remonstrance  very  distant  from  the  humility 
of  complaint.  The  doctrine  inculcated  by  our  laws,  that  "  the 
king  can  do  no  wrong,"  is  admitted  without  reluctance.  We 
separate  the  amiable,  good-natured  prince  from  the  folly  and 
treachery  of  his  servants,  and  the  private  virtues  of  the 
man  from  the  vices  of  his  government.  Were  it  not  for  this 


LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS  429 

just  distinction,  I  know  not  whether  your  Majesty's  condi- 
tion, or  that  of  the  English  nation,  would  deserve  most  to  be 
lamented.  .  .  . 

If  an  English  king  be  hated  or  despised,  he  must  be  unhappy; 
and  this,  perhaps,  is  the  only  political  truth  which  he  ought  to 
be  convinced  of  without  experiment.  But  if  the  English  peo- 
ple should  no  longer  confine  their  resentment  to  a  submissive 
representation  of  their  wrongs;  if,  following  the  glorious  exam- 
ple of  their  ancestors,  they  should  no  longer  appeal  to  the  crea- 
ture of  the  constitution,  but  to  that  high  Being  who  gave  them 
the  rights  of  humanity,  whose  gifts  it  were  sacrilege  to  surren- 
der, —  let  me  ask  you ,  Sir,  upon  what  part  of  your  subjects  would 
you  rely  for  assistance? 

The  people  of  Ireland  have  been  uniformly  plundered  and  op- 
pressed. In  return,  they  give  you  everyday  fresh  marks  of  their 
resentment.  They  despise  the  miserable  governor  you  have 
sent  them,  because  he  is  the  creature  of  Lord  Bute;  nor  is  it 
from  any  natural  confusion  in  their  ideas  that  they  are  so  ready 
to  confound  the  original  of  a  king  with  the  disgraceful  repre- 
sentation of  him. 

The  distance  of  the  colonies  would  make  it  impossible  for 
them  to  take  an  active  concern  in  your  affairs,  if  they  were  as 
well  affected  to  your  government  as  they  once  pretended  to  be 
to  your  person.  They  were  ready  enough  to  distinguish  be- 
tween you  and  your  ministers.  They  complained  of  an  act  of 
the  legislature,  but  traced  the  origin  of  it  no  higher  than  to  the 
servants  of  the  crown;  they  pleased  themselves  with  the  hope 
that  their  sovereign,  if  not  favorable  to  their  cause,  at  least  was 
impartial.  The  decisive  personal  part  you  took  against  them 
has  effectually  banished  that  first  distinction  from  their  minds. 
They  consider  you  as  united  with  your  servants  against  Amer- 
ica, and  know  not  how  to  distinguish  the  sovereign  and  a  venal 
parliament  on  one  side,  from  the  real  sentiments  of  the  English 
people  on  the  other.  Looking  forward  to  independence,  they 
might  possibly  receive  you  for  their  king;  but  if  ever  you  retire 
to  America,  be  assured  they  will  give  you  such  a  Covenant  to 
digest  as  the  Presbytery  of  Scotland  would  have  been  ashamed 
to  offer  to  Charles  the  Second.  They  left  their  native  land  in 
search  of  freedom,  and  found  it  in  a  desert.  Divided  as  they 
are  into  a  thousand  forms  of  policy  and  religion,  there  is  one 


430  LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS 

point  in  which  they  all  agree:  they  equally  detest  the  pageantry 
of  a  king  and  the  supercilious  hypocrisy  of  a  bishop. 

It  is  not,  then,  from  the  alienated  affections  of  Ireland  or 
America  that  you  can  reasonably  look  for  assistance;  still  less 
from  the  people  of  England,  who  are  actually  contending  for 
their  rights,  and  in  this  great  question  are  parties  against  you. 
You  are  not,  however,  destitute  of  every  appearance  of  sup- 
port; you  have  all  the  Jacobites,  Nonjurors,  Roman  Catholics, 
and  Tories  of  this  country,  and  all  Scotland,  without  exception. 
Considering  from  what  family  you  are  descended,  the  choice  of 
your  friends  has  been  singularly  directed;  and  truly,  Sir,  if  you 
had  not  lost  the  Whig  interest  of  England,  I  should  admire  your 
dexterity  in  turning  the  hearts  of  your  enemies.  .  .  . 

As  to  the  Scotch,  I  must  suppose  your  heart  and  understand- 
ing so  biased,  from  your  earliest  infancy,  in  their  favor,  that 
nothing  less  than  your  own  misfortunes  can  undeceive  you. 
You  will  not  accept  of  the  uniform  experience  of  your  ances- 
tors; and,  when  once  a  man  is  determined  to  believe,  the  very 
absurdity  of  the  doctrine  confirms  him  in  his  faith.  A  bigoted 
understanding  can  draw  a  proof  of  attachment  to  the  house  of 
Hanover  from  a  notorious  zeal  for  the  house  of  Stuart,  and  find 
an  earnest  of  future  loyalty  hi  former  rebellions.  Appearances 
are,  however,  in  their  favor,  —  so  strongly,  indeed,  that  one 
would  think  they  had  forgotten  that  you  are  their  lawful  king, 
and  had  mistaken  you  for  a  pretender  to  the  crown.  Let 
it  be  admitted,  then,  that  the  Scotch  are  as  sincere  in  their 
present  professions  as  if  you  were,  in  reality,  not  an  English- 
man, but  a  Briton  of  the  North.  You  would  not  be  the  first 
prince  of  their  native  country  against  whom  they  have  rebelled, 
nor  the  first  whom  they  have  basely  betrayed.  .  .  . 

From  the  uses  to  which  one  part  of  the  army  has  been  too  fre- 
quently applied,  you  have  some  reason  to  expect  that  there  are 
no  services  they  would  refuse.  Here,  too,  we  trace  the  partiality 
of  your  understanding.  You  take  the  sense  of  the  army  from 
the  conduct  of  the  Guards,  with  the  same  justice  with  which 
you  collect  the  sense  of  the  people  from  the  representations  of 
the  ministry.  Your  marching  regiments,  sir,  will  not  make  the 
Guards  their  example,  either  as  soldiers  or  subjects.  They  feel, 
and  resent  —  as  they  ought  to  do  —  that  invariable,  undis- 
tinguishing  favor  with  which  the  Guards  are  treated;  while 


LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS  431 

those  gallant  troops  by  whom  every  hazardous,  every  laborious 
service  is  performed,  are  left  to  perish  in  garrisons  abroad,  or 
pine  in  quarters  at  home,  neglected  and  forgotten.  If  they  had 
no  sense  of  the  great,  original  duty  they  owe  their  country,  their 
resentment  would  operate  like  patriotism,  and  leave  your  cause 
to  be  defended  by  those  to  whom  you  have  lavished  the  rewards 
and  honors  of  their  profession.  The  Pretorian  bands,  enervated 
and  debauched  as  they  were,  had  still  strength  enough  to  awe 
the  Roman  populace,  but  when  the  distant  legions  took  the 
alarm,  they  marched  to  Rome,  and  gave  away  the  empire. 

On  this  side,  then,  whichever  way  you  turn  your  eyes,  you 
see  nothing  but  perplexity  and  distress.  You  may  determine 
to  support  the  very  ministry  who  have  reduced  your  affairs  to 
this  deplorable  situation;  you  may  shelter  yourself  under  the 
forms  of  a  parliament,  and  set  your  people  at  defiance;  but  be 
assured,  Sir,  that  such  a  resolution  would  be  as  imprudent  as  it 
would  be  odious.  If  it  did  not  immediately  shake  your  estab- 
lishment, it  would  rob  you  of  your  peace  of  mind  forever.  .  .  . 

These  sentiments,  Sir,  and  the  style  they  are  conveyed  in, 
may  be  offensive,  perhaps,  because  they  are  new  to  you.  Accus- 
tomed to  the  language  of  courtiers,  you  measure  their  affections 
by  the  vehemence  of  their  expressions;  and  when  they  only 
praise  you  indifferently,  you  admire  their  sincerity.  But  this 
is  not  a  time  to  trifle  with  your  fortune.  They  deceive  you,  Sir, 
who  tell  you  that  you  have  many  friends  whose  affections  are 
founded  upon  a  principle  of  personal  attachment.  The  first 
foundation  of  friendship  is  not  the  power  of  conferring  benefits, 
but  the  equality  with  which  they  are  received  and  may  be 
returned.  The  fortune  which  made  you  a  king  forbade  you  to 
have  a  friend.  It  is  a  law  of  nature,  which  cannot  be  violated 
with  impunity.  The  mistaken  prince  who  looks  for  friendship 
will  find  a  favorite,  and  in  that  favorite  the  ruin  of  his  affairs. 

The  people  of  England  are  loyal  to  the  house  of  Hanover;  not 
from  a  vain  preference  of  one  f amily  to  another,  but  from  a  con- 
viction that  the  establishment  ^f  that  family  was  necessary  to 
the  support  of  their  civil  and  religious  liberties.  This,  Sir,  is  a 
principle  of  allegiance  equally  solid  and  rational,  fit  for  Eng- 
lishmen to  adopt,  and  well  worthy  of  your  Majesty's  encourage- 
ment. We  cannot  long  be  deluded  by  nominal  distinctions.  The 
name  of  Stuart,  of  itself,  is  only  contemptible;  armed  with  the 


432  LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS 

sovereign  authority,  their  principles  are  formidable.  The  prince 
who  imitates  their  conduct  should  be  warned  by  their  exam- 
ple; and,  while  he  plumes  himself  upon  the  security  of  his  title 
to  the  crown,  should  remember  that,  as  it  was  acquired  by  one 
revolution,  it  may  be  lost  by  another. 

TO  HIS  GRACE  THE   DUKE   OF   GRAFTON 

September  28,  1771. 
MY  LORD  : 

The  people  of  England  are  not  apprised  of  the  full  extent  of 
their  obligations  to  you.  They  have  yet  no  adequate  idea  of 
the  endless  variety  of  your  character.  They  have  seen  you  dis- 
tinguished and  successful  in  the  continued  violation  of  those 
moral  and  political  duties  by  which  the  little  as  well  as  the 
great  societies  of  life  are  connected  and  held  together.  Every 
color,  every  character  became  you.  With  a  rate  of  abilities 
which  Lord  Weymouth  very  justly  looks  down  upon  with  con- 
tempt, you  have  done  as  much  mischief  to  the  community  as 
Cromwell  would  have  done,  if  Cromwell  had  been  a  coward, 
and  as  much  as  Machiavel,  if  Machiavel  had  not  known  that 
an  appearance  of  morals  and  religion  are  useful  in  society.  To  a 
thinking  man  the  influence  of  the  crown  will  in  no  view  appear 
so  formidable  as  when  he  observes  to  what  enormous  excesses 
it  has  safely  conducted  your  Grace,  without  a  ray  of  real  under- 
standing, without  even  the  pretension  to  common  decency  or 
principle  of  any  kind,  or  a  single  spark  of  personal  resolution. 
What  must  be  the  operation  of  that  pernicious  influence  (for 
which  our  kings  have  wisely  exchanged  the  nugatory  name  of 
prerogative),  that  in  the  highest  stations  can  so  abundantly 
supply  the  absence  of  virtue,  courage,  and  abilities,  and  qualify 
a  man  to  be  the  minister  of  a  great  nation,  whom  a  private  gen- 
tleman would  be  ashamed  and  afraid  to  admit  into  his  family! 
Like  the  universal  passport  of  an  ambassador,  it  supersedes  the 
prohibition  of  the  laws,  banishes  the  staple  virtues  of  the  coun- 
try, and  introduces  vice  and  folly  triumphantly  into  all  the 
departments  of  the  state.  Other  princes,  besides  His  Majesty, 
have  had  the  means  of  corruption  within  their  reach,  but  they 
have  used  it  with  moderation.  In  former  times,  corruption 
was  considered  as  a  foreign  auxiliary  to  government,  and  only 
called  in  upon  extraordinary  emergencies.  The  unfeigned  piety, 


LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS  433 

the  sanctified  religion,  of  George  the  Third,  have  taught  him  to 
new  model  the  civil  forces  of  the  state.  The  natural  resources 
of  the  crown  are  no  longer  confided  in.  Corruption  glitters  in  the 
van,  collects  and  maintains  a  standing  army  of  mercenaries, 
and  at  the  same  moment  impoverishes  and  enslaves  the  country. 
His  Majesty's  predecessors  (excepting  that  worthy  family  from 
which  you,  my  Lord,  are  unquestionably  descended)  had  some 
generous  qualities  in  their  composition,  with  vices,  I  confess,  or 
frailties  in  abundance.  They  were  kings  or  gentlemen,  not 
hypocrites  or  priests.  They  were  at  the  head  of  the  Church, 
but  did  not  know  the  value  of  their  office.  They  said  their 
prayers  without  ceremony,  and  had  too  little  priestcraft  in 
their  understanding  to  reconcile  the  sanctimonious  forms  of 
religion  with  the  utter  destruction  of  the  morality  of  their 
people. 

My  Lord,  this  is  fact,  not  declamation.  With  all  your  par- 
tiality to  the  house  of  Stuart,  you  must  confess  that  even 
Charles  the  Second  would  have  blushed  at  that  open  encourage- 
ment, at  those  eager,  meretricious  caresses,  with  which  every 
species  of  private  vice  and  public  prostitution  is  received  at  St. 
James's.  The  unfortunate  house  of  Stuart  has  been  treated 
with  an  asperity  which,  if  comparison  be  a  defense^  seems  to 
border  upon  injustice.  Neither  Charles  nor  his  brother  were 
qualified  to  support  such  a  system  of  measures  as  would  be 
necessary  to  change  the  government  and  subvert  the  constitu- 
tion of  England.  One  of  them  was  too  much  in  earnest  in  his 
pleasures,  the  other  in  his  religion.  But  the  danger  to  this 
country  would  cease  to  be  problematical,  if  the  crown  should 
ever  descend  to  a  prince  whose  apparent  simplicity  might 
throw  his  subjects  off  their  guard,  —  who  might  be  no  libertine 
in  behavior,  who  should  have  no  sense  of  honor  to  restrain  him, 
and  who,  with  just  religion  enough  to  impose  upon  the  multi- 
tude, might  have  no  scruples  of  conscience  to  interfere  with  his 
morality.  With  these  honorable  qualifications,  and  the  decisive 
advantage  of  situation,  low  craft  and  falsehood  are  all  the  abil- 
ities that  are  wanting  to  destroy  the  wisdom  of  ages,  and  to 
deface  the  noblest  monument  that  human  policy  has  erected.  I 
know  such  a  man;  my  Lord,  I  know  you  both;  and,  with  the 
blessing  of  God  (for  I,  too,  am  religious),  the  people  of  England 
shall  know  you  as  well  as  I  do.  ...  From  whatever  origin 


434  LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS 

your  influence  in  this  country  arises,  it  is  a  phenomenon  in  the 
history  of  human  virtue  and  understanding.  Good  men  can 
hardly  believe  the  fact;  wise  men  are  unable  to  account  for  it; 
religious  men  find  exercise  for  their  faith,  and  make  it  the  last 
effort  of  their  piety  not  to  repine  against  Providence. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 
THE  BEE 
1759 

[This  periodical  appeared  on  October  6, 1759,  at  the  beginning  of  Gold- 
smith's career  as  a  hack  writer;  it  lasted  through  only  eight  weekly  num- 
bers. Each  number  contained  from  three  to  five  essays,  all  apparently 
written  by  Goldsmith  himself.  The  "Reverie"  here  represented  is  from 
No-  5.] 

A   REVERIE 

.  .  .  I  FANCIED  myself  placed  in  the  yard  of  a  large  inn,  in  which 
there  were  an  infinite  number  of  wagons  and  stage-coaches, 
attended  by  fellows  who  either  invited  the  company  to  take 
their  places,  or  were  busied  in  packing  their  baggage.  Each 
vehicle  had  its  inscription,  showing  the  place  of  its  destination. 
On  one  I  could  read,  THE  PLEASURE  STAGE-COACH;  on  another, 
THE  WAGON  OF  INDUSTRY;  on  a  third,  THE  VANITY  WHIM; 
and  on  a  fourth,  THE  LANDAU  OF  RICHES.  I  had  some  inclina- 
tion to  step  into  each  of  these,  one  after  another;  but,  I  know 
not  by  what  means,  I  passed  them  by,  and  at  last  fixed  my  eye 
upon  a  small  carriage,  berlin  fashion,  which  seemed  the  most 
convenient  vehicle  at  a  distance  in  the  world,  and  upon  my 
nearer  approach  found  it  to  be  THE  FAME  MACHINE. 

I  instantly  made  up  to  the  coachman,  whom  I  found  to  be  an 
affable  and  seemingly  good-natured  fellow.  He  informed  me 
that  he  had  but  a  few  days  ago  returned  from  the  Temple  of 
Fame,  to  which  he  had  been  carrying  Addison,  Swift,  Pope, 
Steele,  Congreve,  and  Colley  Gibber;  that  they  made  but  in- 
different company  by  the  way;  and  that  he  once  or  twice  was 
going  to  empty  his  berlin  of  the  whole  cargo.  "However,"  says 
he,  "I  got  them  all  safe  home,  with  no  other  damage  than  a 
black  eye  which  Colley  gave  Mr.  Pope,  and  am  now  returned 
for  another  coachful." 

"If  that  be  all,  friend,"  said  I,  "and  if  you  are  in  want  of 
company,  I'll  make  one  with  all  my  heart.  Open  the  door;  I 
hope  the  machine  rides  easy." 


436  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

"Oh,  for  that,  sir,  extremely  easy."  But,  still  keeping  the 
door  shut,  and  measuring  me  with  his  eye  —  "Pray,  sir,  have 
you  no  luggage?  You  seem  to  be  a  good-natured  sort  of  a  gen- 
tleman, but  I  don't  find  you  have  got  any  luggage,  and  I  never 
permit  any  to  travel  with  me  but  such  as  have  something  valu- 
able to  pay  for  coach-hire." 

Examining  my  pockets,  I  own  I  was  not  a  little  disconcerted 
at  this  unexpected  rebuff;  but,  considering  that  I  carried  a  num- 
ber of  the  Bee  under  my  arm,  I  was  resolved  to  open  it  in  his 
eyes,  and  dazzle  him  with  the  splendor  of  the  page.  He  read 
the  title  and  contents,  however,  without  any  emotion,  and 
assured  me  he  had  never  heard  of  it  before. 

"In  short,  friend,"  said  he,  now  losing  all  his  former  respect, 
"you  must  not  come  in.  I  expect  better  passengers.  But  as 
you  seem  a  harmless  creature,  perhaps,  if  there  be  room  left,  I 
may  let  you  ride  a  while  for  charity." 

I  now  took  my  stand  by  the  coachman  at  the  door,  and, 
since  I  could  not  command  a  seat,  was  resolved  to  be  as  useful 
as  possible,  and  earn  by  my  assiduity  what  I  could  not  by  my 
merit. 

The  next  that  presented  for  a  place  was  a  most  whimsical 
figure  indeed.1  He  was  hung  round  with  papers  of  his  own  com- 
posing, not  unlike  those  who  sing  ballads  in  the  streets,  and 
came  dancing  up  to  the  door  with  all  the  confidence  of  instant 
admittance.  The  volubility  of  his  motion  and  address  prevented 
my  being  able  to  read  more  of  his  cargo  than  the  word  Inspec- 
tor, which  was  written  in  great  letters  at  the  top  of  some  of  the 
papers.  He  opened  the  coach-door  himself  without  any  cere- 
mony, and  was  just  slipping  in  when  the  coachman,  with  as 
little  ceremony,  pulled  him  back.  Our  figure  seemed  perfectly 
angry  at  this  repulse,  and  demanded  gentleman's  satisfaction. 

"Lord,  sir!"  replied  the  coachman,  "instead  of  proper  lug- 
gage, by  your  bulk  you  seem  loaded  for  a  West  India  voyage. 
You  are  big  enough,  with  all  your  papers,  to  crack  twenty 
stage-coaches.  Excuse  me,  indeed,  sir,  for  you  must  not  enter." 

Our  figure  now  began  to  expostulate.  He  assured  the  coach- 
man that,  though  his  baggage  seemed  so  bulky,  it  was  perfectly 
light,  and  that  he  would  be  contented  with  the  smallest  corner 

1  John  Hill,  author  of  many  miscellaneous  writings  and  of  the  Inspector  papers 
(I75I-3). 


THE   BEK  4-27 

of  room.  But  Jehu  was  inflexible,  and  the  carrier  of  the  In- 
spectors was  sent  to  dance  back  again,  with  all  his  papers  flut- 
tering in  the  wind.  We  expected  to  have  no  more  trouble  from 
this  quarter,  when,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  same  figure  changed 
his  appearance,  like  Harlequin  upon  the  stage,  and  with  the 
same  confidence  again  made  his  approaches,  dressed  in  lace, 
and  carrying  nothing  but  a  nosegay.  Upon  coming  near,  he 
thrust  the  nosegay  to  the  coachman's  nose,  grasped  the  brass, 
and  seemed  now  resolved  to  enter  by  violence.  I  found  the 
struggle  soon  begin  to  grow  hot,  and  the  coachman,  who  was  a 
little  old,  unable  to  continue  the  contest.  So,  in  order  to  ingra- 
tiate myself,  I  stepped  in  to  his  assistance,  and  our  united 
efforts  sent  our  literary  Proteus,  though  worsted,  unconquered 
still,  dancing  a  rigadoon,  and  smelling  to  his  own  nosegay. 

The  person1  who  after  him  appeared  as  candidate  for  a  place 
in  the  stage  came  up  with  an  air  not  quite  so  confident,  but 
somewhat,  however,  theatrical;  and,  instead  of  entering,  made 
the  coachman  a  very  low  bow,  which  the  other  returned,  and 
desired  to  see  his  baggage;  upon  which  he  instantly  produced 
some  farces,  a  tragedy,  and  other  miscellany  productions.  The 
coachman,  casting  his  eye  upon  the  cargo,  assured  him  at  pre- 
sent he  could  not  possibly  have  a  place,  but  hoped  in  time  he 
might  aspire  to  one,  as  he  seemed  to  have  read  in  the  book  of 
Nature,  without  a  careful  perusal  of  which  none  ever  found 
entrance  at  the  Temple  of  Fame. 

"What!"  replied  the  disappointed  poet,  "shall  my  tragedy, 
in  which  I  have  vindicated  the  cause  of  liberty  and  virtue  — 

"Follow  nature,"  returned  the  other,  "and  never  expect  to 
find  lasting  fame  by  topics  which  only  please  from  their  popu- 
larity. Had  you  been  first  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  or  praised 
in  virtue  more  than  an  empty  name,  it  is  possible  you  might 
have  gained  admittance;  but  at  present  I  beg,  sir,  you  will 
stand  aside  for  another  gentleman  whom  I  see  approaching." 

This  was  a  very  grave  personage,2  whom  at  some  distance 
I  took  for  one  of  the  most  reserved,  and  even  disagreeable, 
figures  I  had  seen;  but  as  he  approached  his  appearance  im- 
proved, and  when  I  could  distinguish  him  thoroughly,  I  per- 
ceived that,  in  spite  of  the  severity  of  his  brow,  he  had  one 

1  Arthur  Murphy,  author  of  a  tragedy  called  The  Orphan  of  China,  etc. 
1  Doctor  Johnson. 


438  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

of  the  most  good-natured  countenances  that  could  be  imagined. 
Upon  coming  to  open  the  stage-door,  he  lifted  a  parcel  of  folios 
into  the  seat  before  him,  but  our  inquisitorial  coachman  at  once 
shoved  them  out  again. 

"What!  not  take  in  my  Dictionary?"  exclaimed  the  other, 
in  a  rage. 

"Be  patient,  sir,"  replied  the  coachman.  "I  have  drove  a 
coach,  man  and  boy,  these  two  thousand  years,  but  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  carried  above  one  dictionary  during  the 
whole  time.  That  little  book  which  I  perceive  peeping  from 
one  of  your  pockets,  —  may  I  presume  to  ask  what  it  con- 
tains?" 

"A  mere  trifle,"  replied  the  author.  "It  is  called  the 
Rambler." 

"The  Rambler!"  says  the  coachman.  "I  beg,  sir,  you'll  take 
your  place.  I  have  heard  our  ladies  in  the  court  of  Apollo  fre- 
quently mention  it  with  rapture;  and  Clio,  who  happens  to  be  a 
little  grave,  has  been  heard  to  prefer  it  to  the  Spectator,  though 
others  have  observed  that  the  reflections,  by  being  refined, 
sometimes  become  minute." 

This  grave  gentleman  was  scarcely  seated  when  another,1 
whose  appearance  was  something  more  modern,  seemed  willing 
to  enter,  yet  afraid  to  ask.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a  bundle 
of  essays,  of  which  the  coachman  was  curious  enough  to  inquire 
the  contents. 

"These,"  replied  the  gentleman,  "are  rhapsodies  against  the 
religion  of  my  country." 

"And  how  can  you  expect  to  come  into  my  coach,  after  thus 
choosing  the  wrong  side  of  the  question?" 

"Ay,  but  I  am  right,"  replied  the  other;  "and  if  you  give  me 
leave,  I  shall  in  a  few  minutes  state  the  argument." 

"Right  or  wrong,"  said  the  coachman,  "he  who  disturbs 
religion  is  a  blockhead,  and  he  shall  never  travel  in  a  coach  of 
mine." 

"If,  then,"  said  the  gentleman,  mustering  up  all  his  courage, 
"if  I  am  not  to  have  admittance  as  an  essayist,  I  hope  I  shall 
not  be  repulsed  as  an  historian;  the  last  volume  of  my  history 
met  with  applause." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  coachman,  "but  I  have  heard  only  the 

1  Hume. 


THE  BEE 

first  approved  at  the  Temple  of  Fame;  and  as  I  see  you  have  it 
about  you,  enter,  without  further  ceremony." 

My  attention  was  now  diverted  to  a  crowd  who  were  pushing 
forward  a  person  1  that  seemed  more  inclined  to  the  Stage- 
coach of  Riches;  but  by  their  means  he  was  driven  forward  to 
the  same  machine,  which  he  nevertheless  seemed  heartily  to  de- 
spise. Impelled,  however,  by  their  solicitations,  he  steps  up, 
flourishing  a  voluminous  history,  and  demanding  admittance. 

"Sir,  I  have  formerly  heard  your  name  mentioned,"  says  the 
coachman,  "but  never  as  an  historian.  Is  there  no  other  work 
upon  which  you  may  claim  a  place?" 

"None,"  replied  the  other,  "except  a  romance.  But  this  is  a 
work  of  too  trifling  a  nature  to  claim  future  attention." 

"You  mistake,"  says  the  inquisitor.  "A  well-written  ro- 
mance is  no  such  easy  task  as  is  generally  imagined.  I  remem- 
ber formerly  to  have  carried  Cervantes  and  Segrais;  and,  if  you 
think  fit,  you  may  enter." 

Upon  our  three  literary  travelers  coming  into  the  same  coach, 
I  listened  attentively  to  hear  what  might  be  the  conversation 
that  passed  upon  this  extraordinary  occasion;  when,  instead  of 
agreeable  or  entertaining  dialogue,  I  found  them  grumbling  at 
each  other,  and  each  seemed  discontented  with  his  companions. 
Strange!  thought  I  to  myself,  that  they  who  are  born  to  en- 
lighten the  world  should  still  preserve  the  narrow  prejudices 
of  childhood,  and,  by  disagreeing,  make  even  the  highest  merit 
ridiculous.  Were  the  learned  and  the  wise  to  unite  against  the 
dunces  of  society,  instead  of  sometimes  siding  into  opposite 
parties  with  them,  they  might  throw  a  lustre  upon  each  other's 
reputation,  and  teach  every  rank  of  subordinate  merit,  if  not 
to  admire,  at  least  not  to  avow  dislike. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections  I  perceived  the  coachman: 
unmindful  of  me,  had  now  mounted  the  box.  Several  were  ap- 
proaching to  be  taken  in,  whose  pretensions  I  was  sensible  were 
very  just;  I  therefore  desired  him  to  stop  and  take  in  more 
passengers.  But  he  replied,  as  he  had  now  mounted  the  box, 
it  would  be  improper  to  come  down,  but  that  he  should  take 
them  all,  one  after  the  other,  when  he  should  return.  So  he 
drove  away;  and  for  myself,  as  I  could  not  get  in,  I  mounted 
behind,  in  order  to  hear  the  conversation  on  the  way. 

»  Smollett. 


440  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 
1762 

[In  its  original  form  this  work  was  a  series  of  papers  contributed  to  New- 
bery's  Public  Ledger,  in  1760,  under  the  title  of  "  Chinese  Letters."  These 
were  reprinted,  with  additions,  as  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  in  1762.  Most 
of  the  letters  are  supposed  to  be  written  by  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  a  Chinese 
traveler  stopping  in  London,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the  Cere- 
monial Academy  at  Pekin.  The  plan  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  a 
pamphlet  of  Horace  Walpole's  entitled  A  Letter  from  Xo  Ho,  a  Chinese 
Philosopher  at  London,  to  his  friend  Lien  Chi,  at  Peking  (see  Austin  Dob- 
son's  essay  on  The  Citizen  of  the  World  in  his  Eighteenth  Century  Vignettes, 
First  Series).] 

LETTER   IV 

THE  English  seem  as  silent  as  the  Japanese,  yet  vainer  than 
the  inhabitants  of  Siam.  Upon  my  arrival  I  attributed  that 
reserve  to  modesty  which  I  now  find  has  its  origin  in  pride. 
Condescend  to  address  them  first,  and  you  are  sure  of  their 
acquaintance;  stoop  to  flattery,  and  you  conciliate  their  friend- 
ship and  esteem.  They  bear  hunger,  cold,  fatigue,  and  all  the 
miseries  of  life,  without  shrinking;  danger  only  calls  forth  their 
fortitude;  they  even  exult  in  calamity;  but  contempt  is  what 
they  cannot  bear.  An  Englishman  fears  contempt  more  than 
death;  he  often  flies  to  death  as  a  refuge  from  its  pressure,  and 
dies  when  he  fancies  the  world  has  ceased  to  esteem  him. 

Pride  seems  the  source  not  only  of  their  national  vices,  but 
of  their  national  virtues  also.  An  Englishman  is  taught  to  love 
his  king  as  his  friend,  but  to  acknowledge  no  other  master  than 
the  laws  which  himself  has  contributed  to  enact.  He  despises 
those  nations  who,  that  one  may  be  free,  are  all  content  to  be 
slaves;  who  first  lift  a  tyrant  into  terror,  and  then  shrink  under 
his  power  as  if  delegated  from  heaven.  Liberty  is  echoed  in  all 
their  assemblies;  and  thousands  might  be  found  ready  to  offer 
up  their  lives  for  the  sound,  though  perhaps  not  one  of  all  the 
number  understands  its  meaning.  The  lowest  mechanic,  how- 
ever, looks  upon  it  as  his  duty  to  be  a  watchful  guardian  of  his 
country's  freedom,  and  often  uses  a  language  that  might  seem 
haughty  even  in  the  mouth  of  the  great  emperor  who  traces  his 
ancestry  to  the  Moon. 

A  few  days  ago,  passing  by  one  of  their  prisons,  I  could  not 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  44i 

avoid  stopping,  in  order  to  listen  to  a  dialogue  which  I  thought 
might  afford  me  some  entertainment.  The  conversation  was 
carried  on  between  a  debtor,  through  the  grate  of  his  prison, 
a  porter  who  had  stopped  to  rest  his  burden,  and  a  soldier  at 
the  window.  The  subject  was  upon  a  threatened  invasion  from 
France,  and  each  seemed  extremely  anxious  to  rescue  his  coun- 
try from  the  impending  danger.  "For  my  part,"  cries  the 
prisoner,  "the  greatest  of  my  apprehensions  is  for  our  freedom. 
If  the  French  should  conquer,  what  would  become  of  English 
liberty?  My  dear  friends,  liberty  is  the  Englishman's  preroga- 
tive; we  must  preserve  that  at  the  expense  of  our  lives;  of  that 
the  French  shall  never  deprive  us.  It  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  men  who  are  slaves  themselves  would  preserve  our  free- 
dom should  they  happen  to  conquer." 

"  Ay,  slaves,"  cries  the  porter; "  they  are  all  slaves,  fit  only  to 
carry  burdens,  every  one  of  them.  Before  I  would  stoop  to 
slavery,  may  this  be  my  poison! "  (and  he  held  the  goblet  in  his 
hand)  "  May  this  be  my  poison!  But  I  would  sooner  list  for  a 
soldier." 

The  soldier,  taking  the  goblet  from  his  friend,  with  much  awe 
fervently  cried  out,  "It  is  not  so  much  our  liberties  as  our 
religion  that  would  suffer  by  such  a  change;  ay,  our  religion,  my 
lads.  May  the  devil  sink  me  in  flames,"  (such  was  the  solemn- 
ity of  his  adjuration)  "  if  the  French  should  come  over,  but  our 
religion  would  be  utterly  undone ! "  So  saying,  instead  of  a  liba- 
tion, he  applied  the  goblet  to  his  lips,  and  confirmed  his  senti- 
ments with  a  ceremony  of  the  most  persevering  devotion. 

In  short,  every  man  here  pretends  to  be  a  politician;  even  the 
fair  sex  are  sometimes  found  to  mix  the  severity  of  national 
altercation  with  the  blandishments  of  love,  and  often  become 
conquerors  by  more  weapons  of  destruction  than  their  eyes. 

This  universal  passion  for  politics  is  gratified  by  daily  ga- 
zettes, as  with  us  in  China.  But  as  in  ours  the  emperor  en- 
deavors to  instruct  his  people,  in  theirs  the  people  endeavor  to 
instruct  the  administration.  You  must  not,  however,  imagine 
that  they  who  compile  these  papers  have  any  actual  knowledge 
of  the  politics  or  the  government  of  a  state;  they  only  collect 
their  materials  from  the  oracle  of  some  coffee-house,  which 
oracle  has  himself  gathered  them  the  night  before  from  a  beau 
at  a  gaming-table,  who  had  pillaged  his  knowledge  from  a  great 


442  .    OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

man's  porter,  who  has  had  his  information  from  the  great 
man's  gentleman,  who  has  invented  the  whole  story  for  his  own 
amusement,  the  night  preceding. 

The  English,  in  general,  seem  fonder  of  gaining  the  esteem 
than  the  love  of  those  they  converse  with.  This  gives  a  formal- 
ity to  their  amusements;  their  gayest  conversations  have  some- 
thing too  wise  for  innocent  relaxation.  Though  in  company  you 
are  seldom  disgusted  with  the  absurdity  of  a  fool,  you  are 
seldom  lifted  into  rapture  by  those  strokes  of  vivacity  which 
give  instant,  though  not  permanent  pleasure. 

What  they  want,  however,  in  gayety,  they  make  up  in  polite- 
ness. You  smile  at  hearing  me  praise  the  English  for  their 
politeness;  you  have  heard  very  different  accounts  from  the 
missionaries  at  Pekin,  who  have  seen  such  a  different  behavior 
in  their  merchants  and  seamen  at  home.  But  I  must  still  repeat 
it,  —  the  English  seem  more  polite  than  any  of  their  neighbors. 
Their  great  art  in  this  resepct  lies  in  endeavoring,  while  they 
oblige,  to  lessen  the  force  of  the  favor.  Other  countries  are  fond 
of  obliging  a  stranger,  but  seem  desirous  that  he  should  be 
sensible  of  the  obligation.  The  English  confer  their  kindness 
with  an  appearance  of  indifference,  and  give  away  benefits  with 
an  air  as  if  they  despised  them. 

Walking,  a  few  days  ago,  between  an  English  and  a  French 
man,  into  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  we  were  overtaken  by  a  heavy 
shower  of  rain.  I  was  unprepared;  but  they  had  each  large 
coats,  which  defended  them  from  what  seemed  to  me  a  perfect 
inundation.  The  Englishman,  seeing  me  shrink  from  the 
weather,  accosted  me  thus:  "  Psha,  man!  What  dost  shrink  at? 
Here,  take  this  coat;  I  don't  want  it.  I  find  it  no  way  useful  to 
me;  I  had  as  lief  be  without  it."  The  Frenchman  began  to  show 
his  politeness  in  turn.  "My  dear  friend,"  cries  he,  "  why  won't 
you  oblige  me  by  making  use  of  my  coat?  You  see  how  well  it 
defends  me  from  the  rain;  I  should  not  choose  to  part  with  it  to 
others,  but  to  such  a  friend  as  you  I  could  even  part  with  my 
skin  to  do  him  service." 

From  such  minute  instances  as  these,  most  reverend  Fum 
Hoam,  I  am  sensible  your  sagacity  will  collect  instruction.  The 
volume  of  nature  is  the  book  of  knowledge,  and  he  becomes 
most  wise  who  makes  the  most  judicious  selection. — Farewell. 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  443 

LETTER   XIII 

I  am  just  returned  from  Westminster  Abbey,  the  place  of 
sepulture  for  the  philosophers,  heroes,  and  kings  of  England. 
What  a  gloom  do  monumental  inscriptions  and  all  the  venerable 
remains  of  deceased  merit  inspire!  Imagine  a  temple  marked 
with  the  hand  of  antiquity,  solemn  as  religious  awe,  adorned 
with  all  the  magnificence  of  barbarous  profusion,  dun  windows, 
fretted  pillars,  long  colonnades,  and  dark  ceilings.  Think,  then, 
what  were  my  sensations  at  being  introduced  to  such  a  scene.  I 
stood  in  the  midst  of  the  temple,  and  threw  my  eyes  round  on 
the  walls,  filled  with  the  statues,  the  inscriptions,  and  the 
monuments  of  the  dead.  Alas!  I  said  to  myself,  how  does  pride 
attend  the  puny  child  of  dust  even  to  the  grave!  Even  humble 
as  I  am,  I  possess  more  consequence  in  the  present  scene  than 
the  greatest  hero  of  them  all.  They  have  toiled  for  an  hour  to 
gain  a  transient  immortality,  and  are  at  length  retired  to  the 
grave,  where  they  have  no  attendant  but  the  worm,  none  to 
flatter  but  the  epitaph. 

As  I  was  indulging  such  reflections,  a  gentleman  dressed  in 
black,  perceiving  me  to  be  a  stranger,  came  up,  entered  into 
conversation,  and  politely  offered  to  be  my  instructor  and 
guide  through  the  temple.  "  If  any  monument,"  said  he,  "should 
particularly  excite  your  curiosity,  I  shall  endeavor  to  satisfy 
your  demands."  I  accepted  with  thanks  the  gentleman's  offer, 
adding  that  I  was  come  to  observe  the  policy,  the  wisdom,  and 
the  justice  of  the  English,  in  conferring  rewards  upon  deceased 
merit.  "  If  adulation  like  this,"  continued  I,  "  be  properly  con- 
ducted, as  it  can  no  ways  injure  those  who  are  flattered,  so  it 
may  be  a  glorious  incentive  to  those  who  are  now  capable  of 
enjoying  it.  It  is  the  duty  of  every  good  government  to  turn 
this  monumental  pride  to  its  own  advantage,  to  become  strong 
in  the  aggregate  from  the  weakness  of  the  individual.  If  none 
but  the  truly  great  have  a  place  in  this  awful  repository,  a  tem- 
ple like  this  will  give  the  finest  lessons  of  morality,  and  be  a 
strong  incentive  to  true  ambition.  I  am  told  that  none  have  a 
place  here  but  characters  of  the  most  distinguished  merit." 

The  Man  in  Black  seemed  impatient  at  my  observations,  so  I 
discontinued  my  remarks,  and  we  walked  on  together  to  take  a 
view  of  every  particular  monument  in  order  as  it  lay.  As  the 


444  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

eye  is  naturally  caught  by  the  finest  objects,  I  could  not  avoid 
being  particularly  curious  about  one  monument  which  appeared 
more  beautiful  than  the  rest.  "  That,"  said  I  to  my  guide,  "  I 
take  to  be  the  tomb  of  some  very  great  man.  By  the  peculiar 
excellence  of  the  workmanship,  and  the  magnificence  of  the 
design,  this  must  be  a  trophy  raised  to  the  memory  of  some  king 
who  has  saved  his  country  from  ruin,  or  lawgiver  who  has 
reduced  his  fellow-citizens  from  anarchy  into  just  subjection." 

"It  is  not  requisite,"  replied  my  companion,  smiling,  "to 
have  such  qualifications  in  order  to  have  a  very  fine  monument 
here.  More  humble  abilities  will  suffice." 

"  What!  I  suppose,  then,  the  gaining  two  or  three  battles,  or 
the  taking  half  a  score  towns,  is  thought  a  sufficient  qualifi- 
cation?" 

"  Gaining  battles  or  taking  towns,"  replied  the  Man  in 
Black,  "may  be  of  service;  but  a  gentleman  may  have  a  very 
fine  monument  here  without  ever  seeing  a  battle  or  a  siege." 

"This,  then,  is  the  monument  of  some  poet,  I  presume,  —  of 
one  whose  wit  has  gained  him  immortality? " 

"No,  sir,"  replied  my  guide,  "the  gentleman  who  lies  here 
never  made  verses;  and  as  for  wit,  he  despised  it  in  others, 
because  he  had  none  himself." 

"  Pray  tell  me,  then,  in  a  word,"  said  I,  peevishly,  "  what 
is  the  great  man  who  lies  here  particularly  remarkable  for?  " 

"Remarkable,  sir?"  said  my  companion.  "Why,  sir,  the 
gentleman  that  lies  here  is  remarkable,  very  remarkable,  —  for 
a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey." 

"But,  head  of  my  ancestors!  how  has  he  got  here?  I  fancy 
he  could  never  bribe  the  guardians  of  the  temple  to  give  him  a 
place.  Should  he  not  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  among  company 
where  even  moderate  merit  would  look  like  infamy?  " 

"I  suppose,"  replied  the  Man  in  Black,  "the  gentleman  was 
rich,  and  his  friends,  as  is  usual  is  such  a  case,  told  him  he  was 
great.  He  readily  believed  them;  the  guardians  of  the  temple, 
as  they  got  by  the  self-delusion,  were  ready  to  believe  him  too. 
So  he  paid  his  money  for  a  fine  monument;  and  the  workman, 
as  you  see,  has  made  him  one  of  the  most  beautiful.  Think  not, 
however,  that  this  gentleman  is  singular  in  his  desire  of  being 
buried  among  the  great.  There  are  several  others  in  the  tem- 
ple who,  hated  and  shunned  by  the  great  while  alive,  have 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  44S 

come  here  fully  resolved  to  keep  them  company  now  they  are 
dead." 

As  we  walked  along  to  a  particular  part  of  the  temple, 
"There,"  says  the  gentleman,  pointing  with  his  finger,  "that  is 
the  Poets'  Corner.  There  you  see  the  monuments  of  Shake- 
speare, and  Milton,  and  Prior,  and  Drayton." 

"Drayton! "  I  replied.  "I  never  heard  of  him  before.  But  I 
have  been  told  of  one  Pope  —  is  he  there?  " 

"It  is  time  enough,"  replied  my  guide,  "these  hundred 
years.  He  is  not  long  dead;  people  have  not  done  hating  him 
yet." 

"Strange,"  cried  I;  "can  any  be  found  to  hate  a  man  whose 
life  was  wholly  spent  in  entertaining  and  instructing  his  fellow- 
creatures?  " 

"Yes,"  says  my  guide,  "they  hate  him  for  that  very  reason. 
There  is  a  set  of  men  called  answerers  of  books,  who  take 
upon  them  to  watch  the  republic  of  letters,  and  distribute 
reputation  by  the  sheet.  These  answerers  have  no  other  em- 
ployment but  to  cry  out  Dunce  and  Scribbler,  to  praise  the 
dead  and  revile  the  living,  to  grant  a  man  of  confessed  abili- 
ties some  small  share  of  merit,  to  applaud  twenty  blockheads 
in  order  to  gain  the  reputation  of  candor,  and  to  revile  the 
moral  character  of  the  man  whose  writings  they  cannot  injure. 
Such  wretches  are  kept  in  pay  by  some  mercenary  bookseller, 
or  more  frequently  the  bookseller  himself  takes  this  dirty  work 
off  their  hands,  as  all  that  is  required  is  to  be  very  abusive  and 
very  dull.  Every  poet  of  any  genius  is  sure  to  find  such  enemies. 
He  feels,  though  he  seems  to  despise,  their  malice;  they  make 
him  miserable  here,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  empty  fame  at  last 
he  gains  solid  anxiety." 

"  Has  this  been  the  case  with  every  poet  I  see  here?  "  cried  I. 

"Yes,  with  every  mother's  son  of  them,"  replied  he,  "except 

he  happened  to  be  born  a  mandarin.  If  he  has  much  money,  he 

may  buy  reputation  from  your  book-answerers,  as  well  as  a 

monument  from  the  guardians  of  the  temple." 

"But  are  there  not  some  men  of  distinguished  taste,  as  in 
China,  who  are  willing  to  patronize  men  of  merit,  and  soften 
the  rancor  of  malevolent  dullness?" 

"I  own  there  are  many,"  replied  the  Man  in  Black.  "But 
alas!  sir,  the  book-answerers  crowd  about  them,  and  call  them- 


446  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

selves  the  writers  of  books,  and  the  patron  is  too  indolent  to 
distinguish.  Thus  poets  are  kept  at  a  distance,  while  their  ene- 
mies eat  up  all  their  rewards  at  the  mandarin's  table."  .  .  . 

LETTER   XXI 

The  English  are  as  fond  of  seeing  plays  acted  as  the  Chinese; 
but  there  is  a  vast  difference  in  the  manner  of  conducting 
them.  We  play  our  pieces  in  the  open  air,  the  English  theirs 
under  cover;  we  act  by  daylight,  they  by  the  blaze  of  torches. 
One  of  our  plays  continues  eight  or  ten  days  successively;  an 
English  piece  seldom  takes  up  above  four  hours  in  the  repre- 
sentation. 

My  companion  in  black,  with  whom  I  am  now  beginning  to 
contract  an  intimacy,  introduced  me  a  few  nights  ago  to  the 
playhouse,  where  we  placed  ourselves  conveniently  at  the  foot 
of  the  stage.  As  the  curtain  was  not  drawn  before  my  arrival,  I 
had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  behavior  of  the  spectators, 
and  indulging  those  reflections  which  novelty  generally  in- 
spires. The  richest,  in  general,  were  placed  in  the  lowest  seats, 
and  the  poor  rose  above  them  in  degrees  proportioned  to  their 
poverty.  The  order  of  precedence  seemed  here  inverted:  those 
who  were  undermost  all  the  day  now  enjoyed  a  temporary 
eminence,  and  became  masters  of  the  ceremonies.  It  was  they 
who  called  for  the  music,  indulging  every  noisy  freedom,  and 
testifying  all  the  insolence  of  beggary  in  exaltation. 

They  who  held  the  middle  region  seemed  not  so  riotous  as 
those  above  them,  nor  yet  so  tame  as  those  below.  To  judge  by 
their  looks,  many  of  them  seemed  strangers  there  as  well  as  my- 
self;  they  were  chiefly  employed,  during  this  period  of  expecta- 
tion, in  eating  oranges,  reading  the  story  of  the  play,  or  making 
assignations. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  lowest  rows,  which  are  called  the  pit, 
seemed  to  consider  themselves  as  judges  of  the  merit  of  the  poet 
and  the  performers.  They  were  assembled  partly  to  be  amused, 
and  partly  to  show  their  taste;  appearing  to  labor  under  that 
restraint  which  an  affectation  of  superior  discernment  generally 
produces.  My  companion,  however,  informed  me  that  not  one 
in  a  hundred  of  them  knew  even  the  first  principles  of  criticism; 
that  they  assumed  the  right  of  being  censors  because  there  was 
none  to  contradict  their  pretensions,  and  that  every  man  who 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  447 

now  called  himself  a  connoisseur  became  such  to  all  intents  and 
purposes. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  boxes  appeared  in  the  most  unhappy 
situation  of  all.  The  rest  of  the  audience  came  merely  for  their 
own  amusement;  these,  rather  to  furnish  out  a  part  of  the  enter- 
tainment themselves.  I  could  not  avoid  considering  them  as 
acting  parts  in  dumb  show,  —  not  a  curtesy  or  nod  that  was  not 
the  result  of  art;  not  a  look  nor  a  smile  that  was  not  designed 
for  murder.  Gentlemen  and  ladies  ogled  each  other  through 
spectacles;  for  my  companion  observed  that  blindness  was  of 
late  become  fashionable.  All  affected  indifference  and  ease, 
while  their  hearts  at  the  same  time  burnt  for  conquest.  Upon 
the  whole,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  ladies  in  their  gayest 
dresses,  the  men  with  cheerfulness  and  expectation  in  their 
looks,  all  conspired  to  make  a  most  agreeable  picture,  and  to 
fill  a  heart  that  sympathizes  at  human  happiness  with  inex- 
pressible serenity. 

The  expected  time  for  the  play  to  begin  at  last  arrived.  The 
curtain  was  drawn,  and  the  actors  came  on.  A  woman,  who 
personated  a  queen,  came  in  curtesying  to  the  audience,  who 
clapped  their  hands  upon  her  appearance.  Clapping  of  hands 
is,  it  seems,  the  manner  of  applauding  in  England;  the  manner 
is  absurd,  but  every  country,  you  know,  has  its  peculiar  ab- 
surdities. I  was  equally  surprised,  however,  at  the  submission 
of  the  actress,  who  should  have  considered  herself  as  a  queen, 
as  at  the  little  discernment  of  the  audience  who  gave  her  such 
marks  of  applause  before  she  attempted  to  deserve  them.  Pre- 
liminaries between  her  and  the  audience  being  thus  adjusted, 
the  dialogue  was  supported  between  her  and  a  most  hopeful 
youth,  who  acted  the  part  of  her  confidant.  They  both  ap- 
peared in  extreme  distress,  for  it  seems  the  queen  had  lost  a  child 
some  fifteen  years  before,  and  still  kept  its  dear  resemblance 
next  her  heart,  while  her  kind  companion  bore  a  part  in  her 
sorrows.  Her  lamentations  grew  loud;  comfort  is  offered,  but 
she  detests  the  very  sound;  she  bids  them  preach  comfort  to 
the  winds.  Upon  this  her  husband  comes  in,  who,  seeing  the 
queen  so  much  afflicted,  can  himself  hardly  refrain  from  tears, 
or  avoid  partaking  in  the  soft  distress.  After  thus  grieving 
through  three  scenes,  the  curtain  dropped  for  the  first  act. 

"Truly,"  said  I  to  my  companion,  "these  kings  and  queens 


448  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

are  very  much  disturbed  at  no  very  great  misfortunes.  Cer- 
tain I  am,  were  people  of  humbler  stations  to  act  in  this  man- 
ner, they  would  be  thought  divested  of  common  sense." 

I  had  scarce  finished  this  observation,  when  the  curtain  rose, 
and  the  king  came  on  in  a  violent  passion.  His  wife  had,  it 
seems,  refused  his  proffered  tenderness,  had  spurned  his  royal 
embrace,  and  he  seemed  resolved  not  to  survive  her  fierce  dis- 
dain. After  he  had  thus  fretted,  and  the  queen  had  fretted, 
through  the  second  act,  the  curtain  was  let  down  once  more. 

"Now,"  says  my  companion,  "you  perceive  the  king  to  be  a 
man  of  spirit;  he  feels  at  every  pore.  One  of  your  phlegmatic 
sons  of  clay  would  have  given  the  queen  her  own  way,  and  let 
her  come  to  herself  by  degrees;  but  the  king  is  for  immediate 
tenderness,  or  instant  death.  Death  and  tenderness  are  leading 
passions  of  every  modern  buskined  hero;  this  moment  they 
embrace,  and  the  next  stab,  mixing  daggers  and  kisses  in  every 
period." 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when  my  attention  was 
engrossed  by  a  new  object.  A  man  came  in  balancing  a  straw 
upon  his  nose,  and  the  audience  were  clapping  their  hands  in  all 
the  raptures  of  applause.  "To  what  purpose,"  cried  I,  "does 
this  unmeaning  figure  make  his  appearance?  Is  he  a  part  of 
the  plot?" 

"Unmeaning  do  you  call  him?"  replied  my  friend  in  black. 
"This  is  one  of  the  most  important  characters  of  the  whole 
play.  Nothing  pleases  the  people  more  than  the  seeing  a  straw 
balanced;  there  is  a  great  deal  of  meaning  in  the  straw;  there  is 
something  suited  to  every  apprehension  in  the  sight,  and  a 
fellow  possessed  of  talents  like  these  is  sure  of  making  his  for- 
tune." 

The  third  act  now  began,  with  an  actor  who  came  to  inform 
us  that  he  was  the  villain  of  the  play,  and  intended  to  show  us 
strange  things  before  all  was  over.  He  was  joined  by  another 
who  seemed  as  much  disposed  for  mischief  as  he ;  their  intrigues 
continued  through  this  whole  division.  "If  that  be  a  villain," 
said  I,  "he  must  be  a  very  stupid  one  to  tell  his  secrets  without 
being  asked;  such  soliloquies  of  late  are  never  admitted  in 
China." 

The  noise  of  clapping  interrupted  me  once  more;  a  child  of 
six  years  old  was  learning  to  dance  on  the  stage,  which  gave  the 


THE   CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  '  449 

ladies  and  mandarins  infinite  satisfaction.  "I  am  sorry,"  said 
I,  "to  see  the  pretty  creature  so  early  learning  so  bad  a  trade; 
dancing  being,  I  presume,  as  contemptible  here  as  it  is  in 
China." 

"Quite  the  reverse,"  interrupted  my  companion.  "Dancing 
is  a  very  reputable  and  genteel  employment  here;  men  have  a 
greater  chance  for  encouragement  from  the  merit  of  their  heels 
than  their  heads.  One  who  jumps  up  and  flourishes  his  toes 
three  times  before  he  comes  to  the  ground,  may  have  three  hun- 
dred a  year.  He  who  flourishes  them  four  times  gets  four  hun- 
dred ;  but  he  who  arrives  at  five  is  inestimable,  and  may  demand 
what  salary  he  thinks  proper.  The  female  dancers,  too,  are 
valued  for  this  sort  of  jumping  and  crossing.  But  the  fourth 
act  is  begun;  let  us  be  attentive." 

In  the  fourth  act  the  queen  finds  her  long-lost  child,  now 
grown  up  into  a  youth  of  smart  parts  and  great  qualifications; 
wherefore  she  wisely  considers  that  the  crown  will  fit  his  head 
better  than  that  of  her  husband,  whom  she  knows  to  be  a  driv- 
eler. The  king  discovers  her  design,  and  here  comes  on  the  deep 
distress:  he  loves  the  queen,  and  he  loves  the  kingdom ;  he  re- 
solves, therefore,  in  order  to  possess  both,  that  her  son  must 
die.  The  queen  exclaims  at  his  barbarity,  is  frantic  with  rage, 
and  at  length,  overcome  with  sorrow,  falls  into  a  fit;  upon  which 
the  curtain  drops,  and  the  act  is  concluded. 

"Observe  the  art  of  the  poet,"  cries  my  companion.  "When 
the  queen  can  say  no  more,  she  falls  into  a  fit.  While  thus  her 
eyes  are  shut,  while  she  is  supported  in  the  arms  of  Abigail, 
what  horrors  do  we  not  fancy!  We  feel  it  in  every  nerve.  Take 
my  word  for  it,  that  fits  are  the  true  aposiopesis  of  modern 
tragedy." 

The  fifth  act  began,  and  a  busy  piece  it  was.  Scenes  shifting, 
trumpets  sounding,  mobs  hallooing,  carpets  spreading,  guards 
bustling  from  one  door  to  another;  gods,  demons,  daggers, 
.•racks,  and  ratsbane.  But  whether  the  king  was  killed,  or  the 
queen  was  drowned,  or  the  son  was  poisoned,  I  have  abso- 
lutely forgotten. 

When  the  play  was  over,  I  could  not  avoid  observing  that 
the  persons  of  the  drama  appeared  in  as  much  distress  in  the 
first  act  as  the  last.  "How  is  it  possible,"  said  I,  "to  sympa- 
thize with  them  through  five  long  acts!  Pity  is  but  a  short- 


4So  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

lived  passion.  I  hate  to  hear  an  actor  mouthing  trifles;  neither 
startings,  strainings,  nor  attitudes,  affect  me,  unless  there  be 
cause.  After  I  have  been  once  or  twice  deceived  by  those  un- 
meaning alarms,  my  heart  sleeps  in  peace,  probably  unaffected 
by  the  principal  distress.  There  should  be  one  great  passion 
aimed  at  by  the  actor  as  well  as  the  poet.  All  the  rest  should  be 
subordinate,  and  only  contribute  to  make  that  the  greater.  If 
the  actor,  therefore,  exclaims  upon  every  occasion  in  the  tones 
of  despair,  he  attempts  to  move  us  too  soon;  he  anticipates  the 
blow,  he  ceases  to  affect,  though  he  gains  our  applause." 

I  scarce  perceived  that  the  audience  were  almost  all  departed; 
wherefore,  mixing  with  the  crowd,  my  companion  and  I  got 
into  the  street,  where,  essaying  a  hundred  obstacles  from 
coach-wheels  and  palanquin-poles,  like  birds  in  their  flight 
through  the  branches  of  a  forest,  after  various  turnings,  we 
both  at  length  got  home  in  safety.  —  Adieu. 

LETTER   XLI 

Some  time  since  I  sent  thee,  O  holy  disciple  of  Confucius,  an 
account  of  the  grand  abbey,  or  mausoleum,  of  the  kings  and 
heroes  of  this  nation.  1  have  since  been  introduced  to  a  temple 
not  so  ancient,  but  far  superior  in  beauty  and  magnificence. 
In  this,  which  is  the  most  considerable  of  the  empire,  there  are 
no  pompous  inscriptions,  no  flattery  paid  the  dead,  but  all  is  ele- 
gant and  awfully  simple.  There  are,  however,  a  few  rags  hung 
round  the  walls,  which  have,  at  a  vast  expense,  been  taken  from 
the  enemy  in  the  present  war.  The  silk  of  which  they  are  com- 
posed, when  new,  might  be  valued  at  half  a  string  of  copper 
money  in  China;  yet  this  wise  people  fitted  out  a  fleet  and 
an  army  in  order  to  seize  them,  though  now  grown  old,  and 
scarcely  capable  of  being  patched  up  into  a  handkerchief.  By 
this  conquest  the  English  are  said  to  have  gained,  and  the 
French  to  have  lost,  much  honor.  Is  the  honor  of  European 
nations  placed  only  in  tattered  silk? 

In  this  temple  I  was  permitted  to  remain  during  the  whole 
service;  and  were  you  not  already  acquainted  with  the  religion 
of  the  English,  you  might  from  my  description  be  inclined  to 
believe  them  as  grossly  idolatrous  as  the  disciples  of  Lao.  The 
idol  which  they  seem  to  address  strides  like  a  colossus  over  the 
door  of  the  inner  temple,  which  here,  as  with  the  Jews,  is  es- 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  451 

teemed  the  most  sacred  part  of  the  building.  Its  oracles  are  de- 
livered in  a  hundred  various  tones,  which  seem  to  inspire  the 
worshipers  with  enthusiasm  and  awe.  An  old  woman,  who 
appeared  to  be  the  priestess,  was  employed  in  various  attitudes 
as  she  felt  the  inspiration.  When  it  began  to  speak,  all  the 
people  remained  fixed  in  silent  attention,  nodding  assent,  look- 
ing approbation,  appearing  highly  edified  by  those  sounds  which 
to  a  stranger  might  seem  inarticulate  and  unmeaning. 

When  the  idol  had  done  speaking,  and  the  priestess  had 
locked  up  its  lungs  with  a  key,  observing  almost  all  the  com- 
pany leaving  the  temple,  I  concluded  the  service  was  over,  and, 
taking  my  hat,  was  going  to  walk  away  with  the  crowd,  when 
I  was  stopped  by  the  Man  in  Black,  who  assured  me  that  the 
ceremony  had  scarcely  yet  begun. 

"What!"  cried  I.  "Do  I  not  see  almost  the  whole  body  of 
worshipers  leaving  the  church?  Would  you  persuade  me  that 
such  numbers  who  profess  religion  and  morality  would,  in  this 
shameless  manner,  quit  the  temple  before  the  service  was  con- 
cluded? You  surely  mistake;  not  even  the Kalmoucks  would  be 
guilty  of  such  an  indecency,  though  all  the  object  of  their  wor- 
ship was  but  a  joint-stool." 

My  friend  seemed  to  blush  for  his  countrymen,  assuring  me 
that  those  whom  I  saw  running  away  were  only  a  parcel  of 
musical  blockheads,  whose  passion  was  merely  for  sounds,  and 
whose  heads  were  as  empty  as  a  fiddle-case.  "Those  who  remain 
behind,"  says  he,  "are  the  true  religious.  They  make  use  of 
music  to  warm  their  hearts,  and  to  lift  them  to  a  proper  pitch 
of  rapture.  Examine  their  behavior,  and  you  will  confess  there 
are  some  among  us  who  practice  true  devotion." 

I  now  looked  round  me  as  he  directed,  but  sawnothingof  that 
fervent  devotion  which  he  had  promised.  One  of  the  wor- 
shipers appeared  to  be  ogling  the  company  through  a  glass. 
Another  was  fervent,  not  in  addresses  to  heaven,  but  to  his  mis- 
tress; a  third  whispered;  a, fourth  took  snuff;  and  the  priest 
himself,  in  a  drowsy  tone,  read  over  the  "duties"  of  the  day. 

"Bless  my  eyes!"  cried  I,  as  I  happened  to  look  toward  the 
door,  "what  do  I  see?  One  of  the  worshipers  fallen  fast  asleep, 
and  actually  sunk  down  on  his  cushion!  He  is  now  enjoying 
the  benefit  of  a  trance;  or  does  he  receive  the  influence  of  some 
mysterious  vision?" 


452  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

"Alas!  alas!"  replied  my  companion.  "No  such  thing.  He 
has  only  had  the  misfortune  of  eating  too  hearty  a  dinner,  and 
finds  it  impossible  to  keep  his  eyes  open." 

Turning  to  another  part  of  the  temple,  I  perceived  a  young 
lady  just  in  the  same  circumstances  and  attitude.  " Strange!" 
cried  I.  "Can  she  too  have  over-eaten  herself?" 

"Oh,  fie!"  replied  my  friend,  "you  now  grow  censorious. 
She  grow  drowsy  from  eating  too  much!  That  would  be  profan- 
ation. She  only  sleeps  now  from  having  sat  up  all  night  at  a 
brag  party." 

"Turn  me  where  I  will,  then,"  says  I,  "I  can  perceive  no 
single  symptom  of  devotion  among  the  worshipers,  except 
from  that  old  woman  in  the  corner,  who  sits  groaning  behind 
the  long  sticks  of  a  mourning  fan.  She  indeed  seems  greatly 
edified  with  what  she  hears." 

"Ay,"  replied  my  friend,  "I  knew  we  should  find  some  to 
catch  you.  I  know  her;  that  is  the  deaf  lady  who  lives  in  the 
cloisters." 

In  short,  the  remissness  of  behavior  in  almost  all  the  wor- 
shipers, and  some  even  of  the  guardians,  struck  me  with  sur- 
prise. I  had  been  taught  to  believe  that  none  were  ever  pro- 
moted to  offices  in  the  temple  but  men  remarkable  for  their 
superior  sanctity,  learning,  and  rectitude;  that  there  was  no 
such  thing  heard  of  as  persons  being  introduced  into  the  church 
merely  to  oblige  a  senator,  or  provide  for  the  younger  branch 
of  a  noble  family.  I  expected,  as  their  minds  were  continually 
set  upon  heavenly  things,  to  see  their  eyes  directed  there  also, 
and  hoped  from  their  behavior  to  perceive  their  inclinations 
corresponding  with  their  duty.  But  I  am  since  informed  that 
some  are  appointed  to  preside  over  temples  they  never  visit, 
and,  while  they  receive  all  the  money,  are  contented  with 
letting  others  do  all  the  good.  —  Adieu. 

LETTER   LIV 

.  .  .  Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  my  friend  and 
I  lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  company  in  one  of  the  public 
walks  near  the  city.  Here  we  sauntered  together  for  some  time, 
either  praising  the  beauty  of  such  as  were  handsome,  or  the 
dresses  of  such  as  had  nothing  else  to  recommend  them.  We 
had  gone  thus  deliberately  forward  for  some  time,  when,  stop- 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  4S3 

ping  on  a  sudden,  my  friend  caught  me  by  the  elbow,  and  led 
me  out  of  the  public  walk.  I  could  perceive  by  the  quickness 
of  his  pace,  and  by  his  frequently  looking  behind,  that  he  was 
attempting  to  avoid  somebody  who  followed.  We  now  turned 
to  the  right,  then  to  the  left;  as  we  went  forward,  he  still  went 
faster;  but  in  vain;  the  person  whom  he  aitempted  to  escape 
hunted  us  through  every  doubling,  and  gained  upon  us  each 
moment;  so  that  at  last  we  fairly  stood  still,  resolving  to  face 
what  we  could  not  avoid. 

Our  pursuer  soon  came  up,  and  joined  us  with  all  the  famil- 
iarity of  an  old  acquaintance.  "My  dear  Drybone,"  cries  he, 
shaking  my  friend's  hand,  "where  have  you  been  hiding  this 
half  a  century?  Positively  I  had  fancied  you  were  gone  to  culti- 
vate matrimony  and  your  estate  in  the  country." 

During  the  reply  I  had  an  opportunity  of  surveying  the  ap- 
pearance of  our  new  companion.  His  hat  was  pinched  up  with 
peculiar  smartness;  his  looks  were  pale,  thin,  and  sharp;  round 
his  neck  he  wore  a  broad  black  ribbon,  and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle 
studded  with  glass;  his  coat  was  trimmed  with  tarnished  twist; 
he  wore  by  his  side  a  sword  with  a  black  hilt;  and  his  stockings 
of  silk,  though  newly  washed,  were  grown  yellow  by  long  service. 
I  was  so  much  engaged  with  the  peculiarity  of  his  dress  that  I 
attended  only  to  the  latter  part  of  my  friend's  reply,  in  which 
he  complimented  Mr.  Tibbs  on  the  taste  of  his  clothes  and  the 
bloom  in  his  countenance. 

"Pshaw,  pshaw,  Will,"  cried  the  figure,  "  no  more  of  that,  if 
you  love  me.  You  know  I  hate  flattery,  —  on  my  soul  I  do ;  and 
yet,  to  be  sure,  an  intimacy  with  the  great  will  improve  one's 
appearance,  and  a  course  of  venison  will  fatten.  And  yet, 
faith,  I  despise  the  great  as  much  as  you  do;  but  there  are  a 
great  many  damned  honest  fellows  among  them,  and  we  must 
not  quarrel  with  one  half,  because  the  other  wants  breeding.  If 
they  were  all  such  as  my  Lord  Mudler,  one  of  the  most  good- 
natured  creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a  lemon,  I  should  myself 
be  among  the  number  of  their  admirers.  I  was  yesterday  to 
dine  at  the  Duchess  of  Piccadilly's.  My  lord  was  there.  'Ned/ 
says  he  to  me,  — '  Ned,'  says  he, '  I  '11  hold  gold  to  silver  I  can  tell 
you  where  you  were  poaching  last  night.'  '  Poaching,  my  lord? ' 
says  I;  'faith,  you  have  missed  already;  for  I  stayed  at  home, 
and  let  the  girls  poach  for  me.  That's  my  way;  I  take  a  fine 


454  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

woman  as  some  animals  do  their  prey — stand  still,  and,  swoop, 
they  fall  into  my  mouth.'" 

"Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  a  happy  fellow,"  cried  my  companion, 
with  looks  of  infinite  pity.  "  I  hope  your  fortune  is  as  much 
improved  as  your  understanding  in  such  company?  " 

"  Improved! "  replied  the  other.  "  You  shall  know —  but  let 
it  go  no  farther  —  a  great  secret  —  five  hundred  a  year  to  begin 
with — my  lord's  word  of  honor  for  it.  His  lordship  took  me 
down  in  his  own  chariot  yesterday,  and  we  had  a  tete-d-tete  din- 
ner in  the  country,  where  we  talked  of  nothing  else." 

"  I  fancy  you  forget,  sir,"  cried  I,  "  you  told  us  but  this  mo- 
ment of  your  dining  yesterday  in  town." 

"  Did  I  say  so?  "  replied  he  coolly.  "  To  be  sure,  if  I  said  so, 
it  was  so.  Dined  in  town!  Egad,  now  I  do  remember  —  I  did 
dine  in  town;  but  I  dined  in  the  country  too;  for  you  must 
know,  my  boys,  I  eat  two  dinners.  By  the  by,  I  am  grown  as 
nice  1  as  the  devil  in  my  eating.  I  '11  tell  you  a  pleasant  affair 
about  that.  We  were  a  select  party  of  us  to  dine  at  Lady 
Grogram's, — an  affected  piece,  but  let  it  go  no  farther  —  a 
secret.  Well,  there  happened  to  be  no  asafcetida  in  the  sauce  to 
a  turkey,  upon  which,  says  I, '  I  '11  hold  a  thousand  guineas,  and 
say  done  first,  that'  —  But,  dear  Drybone,  you  are  an  honest 
creature;  lend  me  half  a  crown  for  a  minute  or  two,  or  so,  just 
till  —  But  harkee,  ask  me  for  it  the  next  time  we  meet,  or  it 
may  be  twenty  to  one  but  I  forget  to  pay  you." 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally  turned  upon  so 
extraordinary  a  character.  "His  very  dress,"  cries  my  friend, 
"is  not  less  extraordinary  than  his  conduct.  If  you  meet  him 
this  day,  you  will  find  him  in  rags;  if  the  next,  in  embroidery. 
With  those  persons  of  distinction  of  whom  he  talks  so  famil- 
iarly, he  has  scarce  a  coffee-house  acquaintance.  However,  both 
for  the  interests  of  society,  and  perhaps  for  his  own,  Heaven  has 
made  him  poor;  and  while  all  the  world  perceive  his  wants,  he 
fancies  them  concealed  from  every  eye.  An  agreeable  compan- 
ion, because  he  understands  flattery;  and  all  must  be  pleased 
with  the  first  part  of  his  conversation,  though  all  are  sure  of  its 
ending  with  a  demand  on  their  purse.  While  his  youth  counte- 
nances the  levity  of  his  conduct,  he  may  thus  earn  a  precarious 
subsistence;  but.  when  age  comes  on,  the  gravity  of  which  is 

1  Fastidious. 


THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD  455 

incompatible  with  buffoonery,  then  will  he  find  himself  for- 
saken by  all ;  condemned  in  the  decline  of  life  to  hang  upon  some 
rich  family  whom  he  once  despised,  there  to  undergo  all  the 
ingenuity  of  studied  contempt,  to  be  employed  only  as  a  spy 
upon  the  servants,  or  a  bugbear  to  fright  the  children  into 
obedience."  —  Adieu. 


LETTER    LV 

I  am  apt  to  fancy  I  have  contracted  a  new  acquaintance 
whom  it  will  be  no  easy  matter  to  shake  off.  My  little  beau 
yesterday  overtook  me  again  in  one  of  the  public  walks,  and, 
slapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  saluted  me  with  an  air  of  the  most 
perfect  familiarity.  His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual,  except 
that  he  had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a  dirtier  shirt,  a  pair 
of  temple  spectacles,  and  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless,  amusing  little  thing,  I  could 
not  return  his  smiles  with  any  degree  of  severity;  so  we  walked 
forward  on  terms  of  the  utmost  intimacy,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
discussed  all  the  usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular  conver- 
sation. The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  however,  soon 
began  to  appear;  he  bowed  to  several  well-dressed  persons, 
who,  by  their  manner  of  returning  the  compliment,  appeared 
perfect  strangers.  At  intervals  he  drew  out  a  pocket-book, 
seeming  to  take  memorandums,  before  all  the  company,  with 
much  importance  and  assiduity.  In  this  manner  he  led  me 
through  the  length  of  the  whole  walk,  fretting  at  his  absurdi- 
ties, and  fancying  myself  laughed  at  not  less  than  him  by  every 
spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession,  "Blast  me," 
cries  he,  with  an  air  of  vivacity,  "  I  never  saw  the  Park  so  thin 
in  my  life  before!  There's  no  company  at  all  to-day;  not  a 
single  face  to  be  seen." 

"No  company!"  interrupted  I  peevishly;  "no  company, 
where  there  is  such  a  crowd?  Why,  man,  there's  too  much. 
What  are  the  thousand  that  have  been  laughing  at  us  but 
company?  " 

"  Lord,  my  dear,"  returned  he,  with  the  utmost  good-humor, 
"you  seem  immensely  chagrined;  but,  blast  me,  when  the 
world  laughs  at  me,  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  so  we  are  even. 
My  Lord  Trip,  Bill  Squash  the  Creolian,  and  I,  sometimes 


45<5  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

make  a  party  at  being  ridiculous;  and  so  we  say  and  do  a  thou- 
sand things  for  the  joke's  sake.  But  I  see  you  are  grave,  and  if 
you  are  for  a  fine  grave  sentimental  companion,  you  shall  dine 
with  me  and  my  wife  to-day;  I  must  insist  on 't.  I  '11  introduce 
you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady  of  as  elegant  qualifications  as  any  in 
nature;  she  was  bred,  but  that's  between  ourselves,  under  the 
inspection  of  the  Countess  of  All-night.  A  charming  body  of 
voice ;  but  no  more  of  that — she  shall  give  us  a  song.  You  shall 
see  my  little  girl  too,  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Tibbs,  a 
sweet  pretty  creature!  I  design  her  for  my  Lord  Drumstick's 
eldest  son;  but  that 's  in  friendship  —  let  it  go  no  farther;  she 's 
but  six  years  old,  and  yet  she  walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the 
guitar  immensely  already.  I  intend  she  shall  be  as  perfect  as 
possible  in  every  accomplishment.  In  the  first  place,  I  '11  make 
her  a  scholar;  I'll  teach  her  Greek  myself,  and  learn  that  lan- 
guage purposely  to  instruct  her;  but  let  that  be  a  secret." 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  took  me  by  the 
arm,  and  hauled  me  along.  We  passed  through  many  dark 
alleys  and  winding  ways;  for,  from  some  motives  to  me  un- 
known, he  seemed  to  have  a  particular  aversion  to  every  fre- 
quented street;  at  last,  however,  we  got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal- 
looking  house  in  the  outlets  of  the  town,  where  he  informed 
me  he  chose  to  reside  for  the  benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  ever  seemed  to  lie  most 
hospitably  open,  and  I  began  to  ascend  an  old  and  creaking 
staircase,  when,  as  he  mounted  to  show  me  the  way,  he  de- 
manded whether  I  delighted  in  prospects ;  to  which  answering 
in  the  affirmative,  "Then,"  says  he,  "  I  shall  show  you  one  of 
the  most  charming  in  the  world,  out  of  my  windows;  we  shall 
see  the  ships  sailing,  and  the  whole  country  for  twenty  miles 
round,  tip-top,  quite  high.  My  Lord  Swamp  would  give  ten 
thousand  guineas  for  such  a  one;  but,  as  I  sometimes  pleasantly 
tell  him,  I  always  love  to  keep  my  prospects  at  home,  that  my 
friends  may  come  to  see  me  the  oftener." 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs  would  per- 
mit us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was  facetiously 
pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the  chimney;  and  knocking 
at  the  door,  a  voice  from  within  demanded,  "Who's  there?" 
My  conductor  answered  that  it  was  him.  But  this  not  satisfy- 
ing the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the  demand;  to  which 


THE   CITIZEN  OF   THE   WORLD  457 

he  answered  louder  than  before;  and  now  the  door  was  opened 
by  an  old  woman  with  cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house  with  great 
ceremony,  and,  turning  to  the  old  woman,  asked  where  was  her 
lady?  "  Good  troth,"  replied  she,  in  a  peculiar  dialect,  "she's 
washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they  have 
taken  an  oath  against  lending  out  the  tub  any  longer." 

"  My  two  shirts! "  cries  he,  in  a  tone  that  faltered  with  con- 
fusion. "  Wrhat  does  the  idiot  mean?" 

"  I  ken  what  I  mean  weel  enough,"  replied  the  other.  "  She 's 
washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  — " 

"  Fire  and  fury!  no  more  of  thy  stupid  explanations !"  cried 
he.  "  Go  and  inform  her  we  have  got  company.  Were  that 
Scotch  hag,"  continued  he,  turning  to  me,  "  to  be  forever  in 
my  family,  she  would  never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that 
absurd  poisonous  accent  of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  speci- 
men of  breeding  or  high  life ;  and  yet  it  is  very  surprising  too, 
as  I  had  her  from  a  parliament  man,  a  friend  of  mine  from  the 
Highlands,  one  of  the  politest  men  in  the  world ;  but  that 's  a 
secret." 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs's  arrival,  during  which 
interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of  surveying  the  chamber  and 
all  its  furniture,  which  consisted  of  four  chairs  with  old  wrought 
bottoms,  that  he  assured  me  were  his  wife's  embroidery;  a 
square  table  that  had  been  once  japanned;  a  cradle  in  one 
corner,  a  lumbering  cabinet  in  the  other;  a  broken  shepherdess, 
and  a  mandarin  without  a  head,  were  stuck  over  the  chimney; 
and  round  the  walls  several  paltry  unframed  pictures,  which, 
he  observed,  were  all  his  own  drawing. 

"  What  do  you  think,  sir,  of  that  head  in  the  corner,  done  hi 
the  manner  of  Grisoni?  There 's  the  true  keeping  in  it;  it 's  my 
own  face,  and  though  there  happens  to  be  no  likeness,  a  count- 
ess offered  me  an  hundred  for  its  fellow.  I  refused  her,  for, 
hang  it!  that  would  be  mechanical,  you  know." 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appearance,  at  once  a  slattern  and 
a  coquette;  much  emaciated,  but  still  carrying  the  remains  of 
beauty.  She  made  twenty  apologies  for  being  seen  in  such  an 
cdious  dishabille,  but  hoped  to  be  excused,  as  she  had  stayed 
all  night  at  the  Gardens  with  the  Countess,  who  was  excessively 
fond  of  the  horns. 


458  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

"  And  indeed,  my  dear,"  added  she,  turning  to  her  husband, 
"  his  lordship  drank  your  health  in  a  bumper." 

"Poor  Jack!"  cries  he;  "a  dear  good-natured  creature;  I 
know  he  loves  me.  But  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have  given  orders 
for  dinner.  You  need  make  no  great  preparations  neither,  — - 
there  are  but  three  of  us;  something  elegant  and  little  will  do, 
—  a  turbot,  an  ortolan,  or  a  — " 

"  Or  what  do  you  think,  my  dear,"  interrupts  the  wife,  "  of  a 
nice  pretty  bit  of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot,  and  dressed  with  a  little 
of  my  own  sauce?  " 

"  The  very  thing!"  replies  he.  "  It  will  eat  best  with  some 
smart  bottled  beer;  but  be  sure  to  let  us  have  the  sauce  his 
Grace  was  so  fond  of.  I  hate  your  immense  loads  of  meat;  that 
is  country  all  over;  extreme  disgusting  to  those  who  are  in  the 
least  acquainted  with  high  life." 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and  my  appetite  to 
increase.  The  company  of  fools  may  at  first  make  us  smile,  but 
at  last  never  fails  of  rendering  us  melancholy.  I  therefore  pre- 
tended to  recollect  a  prior  engagement,  and,  after  having  shown 
my  respect  to  the  house,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  Eng- 
lish, by  giving  the  old  servant  a  piece  of  money  at  the  door,  I 
took  my  leave;  Mrs.  Tibbs  assuring  me  that  dinner,  if  I  stayed, 
would  be  ready  at  least  in  less  than  two  hours. 

LETTER   XCVIII 

I  had  some  intentions  lately  of  going  to  visit  Bedlam,  the 
place  where  those  who  go  mad  are  confined.  I  went  to  wait 
upon  the  Man  in  Black  to  be  my  conductor,  but  I  found  him 
preparing  to  go  to  Westminster  Hall,  where  the  English  hold 
their  courts  of  justice.  It  gave  me  some  surprise  to  find  my 
friend  engaged  in  a  lawsuit,  but  more  so  when  he  informed  me 
that  it  had  been  depending  for  several  years. 

"  How  is  it  possible,"  cried  I,  "  for  a  man  who  knows  the 
world  to  go  to  law?  I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  courts  of 
justice  in  China;  they  resemble  rat-traps,  every  one  of  them,  — 
nothing  more  easy  than  to  get  in,  but  to  get  out  again  is  at- 
tended with  some  difficulty,  and  more  cunning  than  rats  are 
generally  found  to  possess." 

"Faith,"  replied  my  friend,  "I  should  not  have  gone  to  law 
but  that  I  was  assured  of  success  before  I  began.  Things  were 


THE   CITIZEN   OF   THE   WORLD  459 

presented  to  me  in  so  alluring  a  light  that  I  thought  by  barely 
declaring  myself  a  candidate  for  the  prize  I  had  nothing  more  to 
do  than  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  the  victory.  Thus  have  I  been 
upon  the  eve  of  an  imaginary  triumph  every  term  these  ten 
years;  have  traveled  forward  with  victory  ever  in  my  view,  but 
ever  out  of  reach.  However,  at  present  I  fancy  we  have  ham- 
pered our  antagonist  in  such  a  manner  that,  without  some  un- 
foreseen demur,  we  shall  this  day  lay  him  fairly  on  his  back." 

"If  things  be  so  situated,"  said  I,  "I  don't  care  if  I  attend 
you  to  the  courts,  and  partake  in  the  pleasure  of  your  success. 
But  prithee,"  continued  I,  as  we  set  forward,  "what  reasons 
have  you  to  think  an  affair  at  last  concluded,  which  has  given 
you  so  many  former  disappointments?" 

"  My  lawyer  tells  me,"  returned  he,  "  that  I  have  Salkeld  and 
Ventris  strong  in  my  favor,  and  that  there  are  no  less  than  fif- 
teen cases  in  point." 

"I  understand,"  said  I.  "Those  are  two  of  your  judges  who 
have  already  declared  their  opinions." 

"Pardon  me,"  replied  my  friend,  "Salkeld  and  Ventris  are 
lawyers  who  some  hundred  years  ago  gave  their  opinions  on 
cases  similar  to  mine.  These  opinions  which  make  for  me,  my 
lawyer  is  to  cite;  and  those  opinions  which  look  another  way 
are  cited  by  the  lawyer  employed  by  my  antagonist.  As  I  ob- 
served, I  have  Salkeld  and  Ventris  for  me ;  he  has  Coke  and  Hale 
for  him ;  and  he  that  has  most  opinions  is  most  likely  to  carry 
his  cause." 

"But  where  is  the  necessity,"  cried  I,  "of  prolonging  a  suit 
by  citing  the  opinions  and  reports  of  others,  since  the  same  good 
sense  which  determined  lawyers  in  former  ages  may  serve  to 
guide  your  judges  at  this  day?  They  at  that  time  gave  their 
opinions  only  from  the  light  of  reason;  your  judges  have  the 
same  light  at  present  to  direct  them;  — let  me  even  add,  a 
greater,  as  in  former  ages  there  were  many  prejudices  from 
which  the  present  is  happily  free.  If  arguing  from  authorities 
be  exploded  from  every  other  branch  of  learning,  why  should  it 
be  particularly  adhered  to  in  this?  I  plainly  foresee  how  such  a 
method  of  investigation  must  embarrass  every  suit,  and  even 
perplex  the  student.  Ceremonies  will  be  multiplied,  formalities 
must  increase,  and  more  time  will  thus  be  spent  in  learning  the 
arts  of  litigation  than  in  the  discovery  of  right." 


460  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

"I  see,"  cries  my  friend,  "that  you  are  for  a  speedy  adminis- 
tration of  justice;  but  all  the  world  will  grant  that  the  more 
time  that  is  taken  up  in  considering  any  subject,  the  better  it 
will  be  understood.  Besides,  it  is  the  boast  of  an  Englishman 
that  his  property  is  secure,  and  all  the  world  will  grant  that  a 
deliberate  administration  of  justice  is  the  best  way  to  secure  his 
property.  Why  have  we  so  many  lawyers,  but  to  secure  our 
property?  Why  so  many  formalities,  but  to  secure  our  pro- 
perty? Not  less  than  one  hundred  thousand  families  live  in 
opulence,  elegance,  and  ease,  merely  by  securing  our  prop- 
erty." 

"To  embarrass  justice,"  returned  I,  "by  a  multiplicity  of 
laws,  or  to  hazard  it  by  a  confidence  in  our  judges,  are,  I  grant, 
the  opposite  rocks  on  which  legislative  wisdom  has  ever  split. 
In  one  case,  the  client  resembles  that  emperor  who  is  said  to 
have  been  suffocated  with  the  bedclothes  which  were  only  de- 
signed to  keep  him  warm ;  in  the  other,  to  that  town  which  let 
the  enemy  take  possession  of  its  walls,  in  order  to  show  the 
world  how  little  they  depended  upon  aught  but  courage  for 
safety.  But  bless  me !  what  numbers  do  I  see  here,  all  in  black 
—  How  is  it  possible  that  half  this  multitude  find  employ- 
ment?" 

"Nothing  so  easily  conceived,"  returned  my  companion. 
"They  live  by  watching  each  other.  For  instance,  the  catch- 
pole  watches  the  man  in  debt,  the  attorney  watches  the  catch- 
pole,  the  counselor  watches  the  attorney,  the  solicitor  the  coun- 
selor, and  all  find  sufficient  employment." 

"I  conceive  you,"  interrupted  I.  "They  watch  each  other, 
but  it  is  the  client  that  pays  them  all  for  watching.  It  puts  me 
in  mind  of  a  Chinese  fable,  which  is  entitled  '  Five  Animals  at 
a  Meal.'  A  grasshopper,  filled  with  dew,  was  merrily  singing 
under  a  shade.  A  whangam,  that  eats  grasshoppers,  had 
marked  it  for  its  prey,  and  was  just  stretching  forth  to  devour 
it.  A  serpent,  that  had  for  a  long  time  fed  only  on  whangams, 
was  coiled  up  to  fasten  on  the  whangam.  A  yellow  bird  was 
just  upon  the  wing  to  dart  upon  the  serpent.  A  hawk  had  just 
stooped  from  above  to  seize  the  yellow  bird.  All  were  intent  on 
their  prey,  and  unmindful  of  their  danger;  so  the  whangam  ate 
the  grasshopper,  the  serpent  ate  the  whangam,  the  yellow  bird 
the  serpent,  and  the  hawk  the  yellow  bird;  when,  sousing  from 


THE  CITIZEN   OF   THE   WORLD  461 

on  high,  a  vulture  gobbled  up  the  hawk,  grasshopper,  whangaro 
and  all,  in  a  moment." 

I  had  scarce  finished  my  fable,  when  the  lawyer  came  to 
inform  my  friend  that  his  cause  was  put  off  till  another  term, 
that  money  was  wanted  to  retain,  and  that  all  the  world  was 
of  opinion  that  the  very  next  hearing  would  bring  him  off  vic- 
torious. "If  so,  then,"  cries  my  friend,  "I  believe  it  will  be  my 
wisest  way  to  continue  the  cause  for  another  term ;  and  in  the 
meantime  my  friend  here  and  I  will  go  and  see  Bedlam."  — • 
Adieu. 


RICHARD   KURD 

LETTERS  ON  CHIVALRY  AND   ROMANCE 
1762 

[These  letters  form  one  of  the  landmarks  of  the  "  romantic  movement," 
in  their  daring  defense  of  Gothic  or  mediaeval  art.  The  substance  of  them 
may  well  be  compared  with  certain  parts  of  Warton's  Spenser  (see  page 
332,  above),  and  with  Collins's  Ode  on  the  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands. 
The  extracts  that  follow  are  from  Letters  i,  vi,  and  xn.] 

THE  ages  we  call  barbarous  present  us  with  many  a  subject 
of  curious  speculation.  What,  for  instance,  is  more  remarkable 
than  the  Gothic  Chivalry  ?  or  than  the  spirit  of  Romance,  which 
took  its  rise  from  that  singular  institution? 

Nothing  in  human  nature,  my  dear  friend,  is  without  its  rea- 
sons. The  modes  and  fashions  of  different  tunes  may  appear, 
at  first  sight,  fantastic  and  unaccountable.  But  they  who  look 
nearly  into  them  discover  some  latent  cause  of  their  produc- 
tion. 

Nature  once  known,  no  prodigies  remain — 

as  sings  our  philosophical  bard;  but  to  come  at  this  knowledge 
is  the  difficulty.  Sometimes  a  close  attention  to  the  workings  of 
the  human  mind  is  sufficient  to  lead  us  to  it;  sometimes  more 
than  that,  the  diligent  observation  of  what  passes  without  us,  is 
necessary.  This  last  I  take  to  be  the  case  here.  The  prodigies 
we  are  now  contemplating  had  their  origin  in  the  barbarous  ages. 
Why  then,  says  the  fastidious  modern,  look  any  farther  for  the 
reason?  Why  not  resolve  them  at  once  into  the  usual  caprice 
and  absurdity  of  barbarians?  This,  you  see,  is  a  short  and  com- 
modious philosophy.  Yet  barbarians  have  their  own,  such  as  it 
is,  if  they  are  not  enlightened  by  our  reason.  Shall  we  then  con- 
demn them  unheard,  or  will  it  not  be  fair  to  let  them  have  the 
telling  of  their  own  story  ? 

Would  we  know  from  what  causes  the  institution  of  Chivalry 
was  derived  ?  The  time  of  its  birth,  the  situation  of  the  barba- 
rians amongst  whom  it  arose,  must  be  considered ;  their  wants, 


CHIVALRY   AND   ROMANCE  463 

designs,  and  policies  must  be  explored.  We  must  inquire  when, 
and  where,  and  how  it  came  to  pass  that  the  western  world 
became  familiarized  to  this  prodigy,  which  we  now  start  at. 

Another  thing  is  full  as  remarkable,  and  concerns  us  more 
nearly.  The  spirit  of  Chivalry  was  a  fire  which  soon  spent 
itself;  but  that  of  Romance,  which  was  kindled  at  it,  burnt 
long,  and  continued  its  light  and  heat  even  to  the  politer  ages. 
The  greatest  geniuses  of  our  own  and  foreign  countries,  such  as 
Ariosto  and  Tasso  in  Italy,  and  Spenser  and  Milton  in  England, 
were  seduced  by  these  barbarities  of  their  forefathers;  were  even 
charmed  by  the  Gothic  romances.  Was  this  caprice  and  ab- 
surdity in  them  ?  Or  may  there  not  be  something  in  the  Gothic 
romance  peculiarly  suited  to  the  views  of  a  genius  and  to  the 
ends  of  poetry?  And  may  not  the  philosophic  moderns  have 
gone  too  far,  in  their  perpetual  ridicule  and  contempt  of  it? 

To  form  a  judgment  in  the  case,  the  rise,  progress,  and  genius 
of  Gothic  Chivalry  must  be  explained.  The  circumstances  in 
the  Gothic  fictions  and  manners,  which  are  proper  to  the  ends 
of  poetry  (if  any  such  there  be)  must  be  pointed  out.  Rea- 
sons for  the  decline  and  rejection  of  the  Gothic  taste  in  later 
times  must  be  given. 

You  have  in  these  particulars  both  the  subject  and  the  plan 
of  the  following  Letters. 

Let  it  be  no  surprise  to  you  that,  in  the  close  of  my  last  Let- 
ter, I  presumed  to  bring  the  Gierusalemme  Liber ata  into  compe- 
tition with  the  Iliad.  So  far  as  the  heroic  and  Gothic  manners 
are  the  same,  the  pictures  of  each,  if  well  taken,  must  be  equally 
entertaining.  But  I  go  further,  and  maintain  that  the  circum- 
stances in  which  they  differ  are  clearly  to  the  advantage  of  the 
Gothic  designers. 

You  see  my  purpose  is  to  lead  you  from  this  forgotten  chiv- 
alry to  a  more  amusing  subject:  I  mean  the  poetry  we  still  read, 
and  which  was  founded  upon  it.  Much  has  been  said,  and  with 
great  truth,  of  the  felicity  of  Homer's  age  for  poetical  manners. 
But,  as  Homer  was  a  citizen  of  the  world,  when  he  had  seen  in 
Greece,  on  the  one  hand,  the  manners  he  has  described,  could 
he,  on  the  other  hand,  have  seen  in  the  West  the  manners  of  the 
feudal  ages,  I  make  no  doubt  but  he  would  certainly  have  pre- 
ferred the  latter.  And  the  grounds  of  this  preference  would,  I 


464  RICHARD  KURD 

suppose,  have  been  the  improved  gallantry  of  the  feudal  times,  and 
the  superior  solemnity  of  their  superstitions. 

If  any  great  poet,  like  Homer,  had  lived  amongst,  and  sung 
of,  the  Gothic  knights  (for  after  all  Spenser  and  Tasso  came  too 
late,  and  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  paint  truly  and  perfectly 
what  was  no  longer  seen  or  believed),  this  preference,  I  per- 
suade myself,  had  been  very  sensible.  But  their  fortune  was 
not  so  happy. 

Omnes  illacrymabiles 
Urgentur,  ignotique  longa 
Node,  carent  quia  vale  sacro.1 

As  it  is,  we  may  take  a  guess  of  what  the  subject  was  capable  of 
affording  to  real  genius  from  the  rude  sketches  we  have  of  it  in 
the  old  romancers.  And  it  is  but  looking  into  any  of  them  to  be 
convinced  that  the  gallantry  which  inspirited  the  feudal  times 
was  of  a  nature  to  furnish  the  poet  with  finer  scenes  and  sub- 
jects of  description,  in  every  view,  than  the  simple  and  uncon- 
trolled barbarity  of  the  Grecian.  The  principal  entertainment 
arising  from  the  delineation  of  these,  consists  in  the  exercise  of 
the  boisterous  passions,  which  are  provoked  and  kept  alive 
from  one  end  of  the  Iliad  to  the  other,  by  every  imaginable 
scene  of  rage,  revenge,  and  slaughter.  In  the  other,  together 
with  these,  the  gentler  and  more  humane  affections  are  awak- 
ened in  us  by  the  most  interesting  displays  of  love  and  friend- 
ship; of  love  elevated  to  its  noblest  heights,  and  of  friendship 
operating  on  the  purest  motives.  The  mere  variety  of  these 
paintings  is  a  relief  to  the  reader  as  well  as  writer.  But  their 
beauty,  novelty,  and  pathos  give  them  avast  advantage,  on  the 
comparison. 

Consider,  withal,  the  surprises,  accidents,  adventures  which 
probably  and  naturally  attend  on  the  life  of  wandering  knights; 
the  occasion  there  must  be  for  describing  the  wonders  of  differ- 
ent countries,  and  of  presenting  to  view  the  manners  and  poli- 
cies of  distant  states,  —  all  which  make  so  conspicuous  a  part  of 
the  materials  of  the  greater  poetry.  So  that,  on  the  whole, 
though  the  spirit,  passions,  rapine,  and  violence  of  the  two  sets 
of  manners  were  equal,  yet  there  was  a  dignity,  a  magnificence, 
a  variety  in  the  feudal,  which  the  other  wanted. 

As  to  religious  'machinery,  perhaps  the  popular  system  of 

1  "  [Many  brave  men  lived  before  Agamemnon,  but]  they  are  all  oppressed,  unwept  and 
"nknown,  in  endless  night,. because  they  lack  a  sacred  bard  (to  praise  them)." 


CHIVALRY  AND  ROMANCE  465 

each  was  equally  remote  from  reason,  yet  the  latter  had  some- 
thing in  it  more  amusing,  as  well  as  more  awakening  to  the  im- 
agination. The  current  popular  tales  of  elves  and  fairies  were 
even  fitter  to  take  the  credulous  mind,  and  charm  it  into  a  will- 
ing admiration  of  the  specious  miracles  which  wayward  fancy 
delights  in,  than  those  of  the  old  traditionary  rabble  of  pagan 
divinities.  And  then,  for  the  more  solemn  fancies  of  witch- 
craft and  incantation,  the  horrors  of  the  Gothic  were  above 
measure  striking  and  terrible.  The  mummeries  of  the  pagan 
priests  were  childish,  but  the  Gothic  enchanters  shook  and 
alarmed  all  nature. 

We  feel  this  difference  very  sensibly,  in  reading  the  ancient 
and  modern  poets.  You  would  not  compare  the  Canidia  of 
Horace  with  the  Witches  of  Macbeth.  And  what  are  Virgil's 
myrtles  dropping  blood,  to  Tasso's  enchanted  forest?  .  .  . 

Without  more  words  you  will  readily  apprehend  that  the 
fancies  of  our  modern  bards  are  not  only  more  gallant,  but,  on 
a  change  of  the  scene,  more  sublime,  more  terrible,  more  alarm- 
ing, than  those  of  the  classic  fablers.  In  a  word,  you  will  find 
that  the  manners  they  paint,  and  the  superstitions  they  adopt , 
are  the  more  poetical  for  being  Gothic. 

...  At  length  the  magic  of  the  old  romances  was  perfectly- 
dissolved.  They  began  with  reflecting  an  image,  indeed,  of 
the  feudal  manners,  but  an  image  magnified  and  distorted  by 
unskillful  designers.  Common  sense  being  offended  with  these 
perversions  of  truth  and  nature  (still  accounted  the  more  mon- 
strous, as  the  ancient  manners  they  pretended  to  copy  after 
were  now  disused,  and  of  most  men  forgotten) ,  the  next  step  was 
to  have  recourse  to  allegories.  Under  this  disguise  they  walked 
the  world  a  while,  the  excellence  of  the  moral  and  the  ingenuity 
of  the  contrivance  making  some  amends,  and  being  accepted 
as  a  sort  of  apology,  for  the  absurdity  of  the  literal  story. 

Under  this  form  the  tales  of  fairy  kept  their  ground,  and 
even  made  their  fortune  at  court,  where  they  became,  for  two 
or  three  reigns,  the  ordinary  entertainment  of  our  princes.  But 
reason  in  the  end  (assisted,  however,  by  party  and  religious  pre- 
judices) drove  them  off  the  scene,  and  would  endure  these  lying 
wonders  neither  in  their  own  proper  shape  nor  as  masked  in 
figures. 


466  RICHARD   KURD 

Henceforth  the  taste  of  wit  and  poetry  took  a  new  turn,  and 
fancy,  that  had  wantoned  it  so  long  in  the  world  of  fiction,  was 
now  constrained,  against  her  will,  to  ally  herself  with  strict 
truth,  if  she  would  gain  admittance  into  reasonable  company. 

What  we  have  gotten  by  this  revolution,  you  will  say,  is  a 
great  deal  of  good  sense.  What  we  have  lost  is  a  world  of  fine 
fabling,  the  illusion  of  which  is  so  grateful  to  the  charmed  spirit 
that,  in  spite  of  philosophy  and  fashion,  Fairy  Spenser  still 
ranks  highest  among  the  poets,  —  I  mean  with  all  those  who 
are  either  come  of  that  house,  or  have  any  kindness  for  it.  .  .  „ 


HORACE  WALPOLE 

(FOURTH  EARL  OF  ORFORD) 

LETTERS 

[Walpole's  letters  cover  a  very  long  period,  and  form  the  most  numer- 
ous of  the  collections  of  this  letter-loving  century.  The  largest  number 
of  them  were  addressed  to  his  friends  George  Montagu,  Sir  Horace  Mann, 
and  Henry  Conway.  Those  to  Mann  came  back  into  Walpole's  posses^ 
sion,  and  he  edited  them  and  bequeathed  them  to  a  friend,  the  son  of 
Lady  Waldegrave,  to  be  opened  when  he  should  reach  the  age  of  25.  This 
occurred  in  1810,  and  the  letters  were  published  in  1833.  Meantime  a  por- 
tion of  his  correspondence  had  been  published  in  1798,  in  the  year  follow- 
ing his  death,  and  other  collections  have  appeared  at  intervals  up  to  1005. 
The  edition  made  by  Cunningham  (1857-59)  includes  2665  letters,  and 
the  latest  (by  Mrs.  Paget  Toynbee)  adds  many  more.] 

TO   SIR  HORACE  MANN 

WINDSOR,  August  21,  1746. 

...  I  CAME  from  town(for  take  notice,  I  put  this  place  upon 
myself  for  the  country)  the  day  after  the  execution  of  the  rebel 
lords.1  I  was  not  at  it,  but  had  two  persons  come  to  me  directly 
who  were  at  the  next  house  to  the  scaffold,  and  I  saw  another 
who  was  upon  it;  so  that  you  may  depend  upon  my  accounts. 

Just  before  they  came  out  of  the  Tower,  Lord  Balmerino 
drank  a  bumper  to  King  James's  health.  As  the  clock  struck 
ten,  they  came  forth  on  foot,  Lord  Kilmarnock  all  in  black,  his 
hair  unpowdered  in  a  bag,  supported  by  Forster,  the  great 
Presbyterian,  and  by  Mr.  Home,  a  young  clergyman,  his  friend. 
Lord  Balmerino  followed,  alone,  in  a  blue  coat,  turned  up  with 
red  (his  rebellious  regimentals),  a  flannel  waistcoat,  and  his 
shroud  beneath;  their  hearses  following.  They  were  conducted 
to  a  house  near  the  scaffold ;  the  room  forwards  had  benches  for 
spectators,  in  the  second  Lord  Kilmarnock  was  put,  and  in  the 
third  backwards  Lord  Balmerino;  all  three  chambers  hung  with 
black.  Here  they  parted.  Balmerino  embraced  the  other,  and 
said,  "My  lord,  I  wish  I  could  suffer  for  both!"  He  had  scarce 
left  him,  before  he  desired  again  to  see  him,  and  then  asked 

1  Jacobites,  captured  and  brought  to  trial  after  the  Battle  of  Culloden. 


468  HORACE  WALPOLE 

him,  "My  Lord  Kilmarnock,  do  you  know  any  thing  of  the  reso- 
lution taken  in  our  army,  the  day  before  the  battle  of  Culloden, 
to  put  the  English  prisoners  to  death?"  He  replied,  "My  lord, 
I  was  not  present;  but  since  I  came  hither,  I  have  had  all  the 
reason  to  believe  that  there  was  such  order  taken;  and  I  hear 
the  Duke  has  the  pocket-book  with  the  order."  Balmerino  an- 
swered, "It  was  a  lie  raised  to  excuse  their  barbarity  to  us." 
Take  notice,  that  the  Duke's  charging  this  on  Lord  Kilmarnock 
(certainly  on  misinformation)  decided  this  unhappy  man's 
fate!  .  .  .  At  last  he  came  to  the  scaffold,  certainly  much  terri- 
fied, but  with  a  resolution  that  prevented  his  behaving  in  the 
least  meanly  or  unlike  a  gentleman.  He  took  no  notice  of  the 
crowd,  only  to  desire  that  the  baize  might  be  lifted  up  from  the 
rails,  that  the  mob  might  see  the  spectacle.  He  stood  and 
prayed  some  time  with  Forster,  who  wept  over  him,  exhorted 
and  encouraged  him.  He  delivered  a  long  speech  to  the  Sheriff, 
and  with  a  noble  manliness  stuck  to  the  recantation  he  had 
made  at  his  trial,  declaring  he  wished  that  all  who  embarked 
in  the  same  cause  might  meet  the  same  fate.  He  then  took  off 
his  bag,  coat,  and  waistcoat,  with  great  composure,  and  after 
some  trouble  put  on  a  napkin-cap,  and  then  several  times  tried 
the  block;  the  executioner,  who  was  in  white,  with  a  white 
apron,  out  of  tenderness  concealing  the  axe  behind  himself. 
At  last  the  Earl  knelt  down,  with  a  visible  unwillingness  to 
depart,  and  after  five  minutes  dropped  his  handkerchief,  the 
signal,  and  his  head  was  cut  off  at  once,  only  hanging  by  a  bit 
of  skin,  and  was  received  in  a  scarlet  cloth  by  four  of  the  under- 
taker's men  kneeling,  who  wrapped  it  up  and  put  it  into  the 
coffin  with  the  body,  —  orders  having  been  given  not  to  expose 
the  heads,  as  used  to  be  the  custom. 

The  scaffold  was  immediately  new-strewed  with  sawdust, 
the  block  new-covered,  the  executioner  new-dressed,  and  a  new 
axe  brought.  Then  came  old  Balmerino,  treading  with  the  air 
of  a  general.  As  soon  as  he  mounted  the  scaffold,  he  read  the 
inscription  on  his  coffin,  as  he  did  again  afterwards.  He  then 
surveyed  the  spectators,  who  were  in  amazing  numbers,  even 
upon  masts  of  ships  in  the  river;  and,  pulling  out  his  spectacles, 
read  a  treasonable  speech,  which  he  delivered  to  the  Sheriff, 
and  said  the  young  Pretender  was  so  sweet  a  Prince  that  flesh 
and  blood  could  not  resist  following  him;  and,  lying  down  to 


LETTERS  469 

try  the  block,  he  said,  "If  I  had  a  thousand  lives,  I  would  lay 
them  all  down  here  in  the  same  cause."  He  said,  if  he  had  not 
taken  the  sacrament  the  day  before,  he  would  have  knocked 
down  Williamson,  the  lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  for  his  ill  usage 
of  him.  He  took  the  axe  and  felt  it,  and  asked  the  headsman 
how  many  blows  he  had  given  Lord  Kilmarnock,  and  gave  him 
three  guineas.  Two  clergymen  who  attended  him  coming  up, 
he  said,  "No,  gentlemen,  I  believe  you  have  already  done  me 
all  the  service  you  can."  Then  he  went  to  the  corner  of  the 
scaffold,  and  called  very  loud  for  the  warder,  to  give  him  his 
periwig,  which  he  took  off,  and  put  on  a  night-cap  of  Scotch 
plaid,  and  then  pulled  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  lay  down; 
but,  being  told  he  was  on  the  wrong  side,  vaulted  round,  and 
immediately  gave  the  signal  by  tossing  up  his  arm,  as  if  he  were 
giving  the  signal  for  battle.  He  received  three  blows,  but  the 
first  certainly  took  away  all  sensation.  He  was  not  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  on  the  scaffold;  Lord  Kilmarnock  above  half  a  one. 
Balmerino  certainly  died  with  the  intrepidity  of  a  hero,  but 
with  the  insensibility  of  one  too.  As  he  walked  from  his  prison 
to  execution,  seeing  every  window  and  top  of  house  filled  with 
spectators,  he  cried  out,  "Look,  look!  how  they  are  all  piled  up 
like  rotten  oranges!"  .  .  . 

TO  HON.   H.   S.   CONWAY 

TWICKENHAM,  June  8,  1747. 

You  perceive  by  my  date  that  I  am  got  into  a  new  camp, 
and  have  left  my  tub  at  Windsor.  It  is  a  little  plaything-house l 
that  I  got  out  of  Mrs.  Chevenix's  shop,  and  is  the  prettiest 
bauble  you  ever  saw.  It  is  set  in  enameled  meadows,  with  fili- 
gree hedges :  — 

A  small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  rolled, 
And  little  finches  wave  their  wings  in  gold. 

Two  delightful  roads,  that  you  would  call  dusty,  supply  me 
continually  with  coaches  and  chaises;  barges  as  solemn  as 
Barons  of  the  Exchequer  move  under  my  window;  Richmond 
Hill  and  Ham  walks  bound  my  prospect;  but  thank  God!  the 
Thames  is  between  me  and  the  Duchess  of  Queensberry .  Dowa- 
gers as  plenty  as  flounders  inhabit  all  around,  and  Pope's 
ghost  is  just  now  skimming  under  my  window  by  a  most  po- 

1  The  nucleus  of  "Strawberry  Castle." 


470  HORACE  WALPOLE 

etical  moonlight.  I  have  about  land  enough  to  keep  such  a 
farm  as  Noah's,  when  he  set  up  in  the  ark  with  a  pair  of  each 
kind;  but  my  cottage  is  rather  cleaner  than  I  believe  his  was 
after  they  had  been  cooped  up  together  forty  days.  The  Che- 
venixes  had  tricked  it  out  for  themselves;  up  two  pair  of  stairs 
is  what  they  call  Mr.  Chevenix's  library,  furnished  with  three 
maps,  one  shelf,  a  bust  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  and  a  lame  tele- 
scope without  any  glasses.  .  .  . 

I  could  tell  you  much  election  news,  —  none  else;  though  not 
being  thoroughly  attentive  to  so  important  a  subject  as,  to  be 
sure,  one  ought  to  be,  I  might  now  and  then  mistake,  and  give 
you  a  candidate  for  Durham  in  place  of  one  for  Southampton, 
or  name  the  returning  officer  instead  of  the  candidate.  In  gen- 
eral, I  believe,  it  is  much  as  usual,  —  those  sold  in  detail  that 
afterwards  will  be  sold  in  the -representation,  —  the  ministers 
bribing  Jacobites  to  choose  friends  of  their  own,  —  the  name  of 
well-wishers  to  the  present  establishment,  and  patriots  outbid- 
ding ministers  that  they  may  make  the  better  market  of  their 
own  patriotism.  In  short,  all  England,  under  some  name  or 
other,  is  just  now  to  be  bought  and  sold;  though,  whenever  we 
become  posterity  and  forefathers,  we  shall  be  in  high  repute  for 
wisdom  and  virtue.  My  great-great-grandchildren  will  figure 
me  with  a  white  beard  down  to  my  girdle,  and  Mr.  Pitt's  will 
believe  him  unspotted  enough  to  have  walked  over  nine  hun- 
dred hot  ploughshares  without  hurting  the  sole  of  his  foot. 
How  merry  my  ghost  will  be,  and  shake  its  ears  to  hear  itself 
quoted  as  a  person  of  consummate  prudence! 

TO   SIR  HORACE  MANN 

ARLINGTON  STREET,  May  17,  1749. 

.  .  .  The  graver  part  of  the  world,  who  have  not  been  quite 
so  much  given  up  to  rockets  and  masquing,  are  amused  with  a 
book  of  Lord  Bolingbroke's,  just  published,  but  written  long 
ago.  It  is  composed  of  three  letters,  the  first  to  Lord  Cornbury 
on  the  Spirit  of  Patriotism,  and  two  others  to  Mr.  Lyttelton 
(but  with  neither  of  their  names)  on  the  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King, 
and  the  State  of  Parties  on  the  late  King's  accession.  .  .  . 
But  there  is  a  Preface  to  this  famous  book,  which  makes  much 
more  noise  than  the  work  itself.  It  seems  Lord  Bolingbroke  had 
originally  trusted  Pope  with  the  copy,  to  have  half  a  dozen 


LETTERS 

printed  for  particular  friends.  Pope,  who  loved  money  infin- 
itely beyond  any  friend,  got  fifteen  hundred  copies  printed  pri- 
vately, intending  to  outlive  Bolingbroke  and  make  great  ad- 
vantage of  them;  and  not  only  did  this,  but  altered  the  copy 
at  his  pleasure,  and  even  made  different  alterations  in  different 
copies.  Where  Lord  Bolingbroke  had  strongly  flattered  their 
common  friend  Lyttelton,  Pope  suppressed  the  panegyric; 
where,  in  compliment  to  Pope,  he  had  softened  the  satire  on 
Pope's  great  friend,  Lord  Oxford,  Pope  reinstated  the  abuse. 
The  first  part  of  this  transaction  is  recorded  in  the  Preface;  the 
two  latter  facts  are  reported  by  Lord  Chesterfield  and  Lyttel- 
ton, the  latter  of  whom  went  to  Bolingbroke  to  ask  how  he  had 
forfeited  his  good  opinion.  In  short,  it  is  comfortable  to  us 
people  of  moderate  virtue  to  hear  these  demigods,  and  patriots, 
and  philosophers,  inform  the  world  of  each  other's  villainies. 

STRAWBERRY  HILL,  June  4,  1749. 

.  .  .  In  my  last  I  told  you  some  curious  anecdotes  of  another 
part  of  the  band,  of  Pope  and  Bolingbroke.  The  friends  of  the 
former  have  published  twenty  pamphlets  against  the  latter;  I 
say  against  the  latter,  for,  as  there  is  no  defending  Pope,  they 
are  reduced  to  satirize  Bolingbroke.  One  of  them  tells  him  how 
little  he  would  be  known  himself  from  his  own  writings,  if  he 
were  not  immortalized  in  Pope's;  and,  still  more  justly,  that  if 
he  destroys  Pope's  moral  character,  what  will  become  of  his 
own,  which  has  been  retrieved  and  sanctified  by  the  embalming 
art  of  his  friend  ?  However,  there  are  still  new  discoveries  made 
every  day  of  Pope's  dirty  selfishness.  Not  content  with  the 
great  profits  which  he  proposed  to  make  of  the  work  in  ques- 
tion, he  could  not  bear  that  the  interest  of  his  money  should  be 
lost  till  Bolingbroke's  death,  and  therefore  told  him  that  it 
would  cost  very  near  as  much  to  have  the  press  set  for  half  a 
dozen  copies  as  it  would  for  a  complete  edition,  and  by  this 
means  made  Lord  Bolingbroke  pay  very  near  the  whole  expense 
of  the  fifteen  hundred.  Another  story  I  have  been  told  on  this 
occasion  was  of  a  gentleman  who,  making  a  visit  to  Bishop 
Atterbury  in  France,  thought  to  make  his  court  by  commending 
Pope.  The  Bishop  replied  not;  the  gentleman  doubled  the  dose; 
at  last  the  Bishop  shook  his  head,  and  said, ' '  Mens  curoa  in  cor- 
pore  curvo! "  The  world  will  now  think  justly  of  these  men ;  that 


472  HORACE  WALPOLE 

Pope  was  the  greatest  poet,  but  not  the  most  disinterested  man 
in  the  world,  and  that  Bolingbroke  had  not  all  those  virtues  and 
not  all  those  talents  which  the  other  so  proclaimed;  and  that  he 
did  not  even  deserve  the  friendship  which  lent  him  so  much 
merit;  and  for  the  mere  loan  of  which  he  dissembled  attach- 
ment to  Pope,  to  whom  in  his  heart  he  was  as  perfidious  and 
as  false  as  he  has  been  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  .  .  . 

TO  SIR  DAVID  DALRYMPLE 

STRAWBERRY  HILL,  April  4,  1760. 

...  At  present  nothing  is  talked  of,  nothing  admired,  but 
what  I  cannot  help  calling  a  very  insipid  and  tedious  perfor- 
mance. It  is  a  kind  of  novel,  called  The  Life  and  Opinions  of 
Tristram  Shandy,  the  great  humor  of  which  consists  in  the  whole 
narration  always  going  backwards.  I  can  conceive  a  man  saying 
that  it  would  be  droll  to  write  a  book  in  that  manner,  but  have 
no  notion  of  his  persevering  in  executing  it.  It  makes  one  smile 
two  or  three  times  at  the  beginning,  but  in  recompense  makes 
one  yawn  for  two  hours.  The  characters  are  tolerably  kept  up, 
but  the  humor  is  forever  attempted  and  missed.  The  best  thing 
in  it  is  a  sermon,  oddly  coupled  with  a  good  deal  of  bawdy,  and 
both  the  composition  of  a  clergyman.  The  man's  head,  indeed, 
was  a  little  turned  before,  now  topsy-turvy  with  his  success  and 
fame.  Dodsley  has  given  him  650  pounds  for  the  second  edition 
and  two  more  volumes  (which  I  suppose  will  reach  backwards  to 
his  great-great-grandfather);  Lord  Fauconberg,  a  donative  of 
160  pounds  a  year;  and  Bishop  Warburton  gave  him  a  purse  of 
gold  and  this  compliment  (which  happened  to  be  a  contradic- 
tion), "  that  it  was  quite  an  original  composition,  and  in  the 
true  Cervantic  vein,"  —  the  only  copy  that  ever  was  an  origi- 
nal, except  in  painting,  where  they  all  pretend  to  be  so.  Warbur- 
ton, however,  not  content  with  this,  recommended  the  book  to 
the  bench  of  Bishops,  and  told  them  Mr.  Sterne,  the  author,  was 
the  KngKfili  Rabelais.  They  had  never  heard  of  such  a  writer. 


TO  GEORGE  MONTAGU 

ARLINGTON  STREET,  November  13,  1760. 

.  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  go  to  the  burying1 
t'other  night;  I  had  never  seen  a  royal  funeral.  Nay,  I  walked 

*  Of  Gauge  H. 


LETTERS 


473 


as  a  rag  of  quality,  which  I  found  would  be  —  and  so  it  was  - 
the  easiest  way  of  seeing  it.  It  is  absolutely  a  noble  sight.  The 
Prince's  chamber,  hung  with  purple  and  a  quantity  of  silver 
lamps,  the  coffin  under  a  canopy  of  purple  velvet,  and  six  vast 
chandeliers  of  silver  on  high  stands,  had  a  very  good  effect.  The 
Ambassador  from  Tripoli  and  his  son  were  carried  to  see  that 
chamber.  The  procession,  through  a  line  of  foot-guards,  every 
seventh  man  bearing  a  torch,  the  horseguards  lining  the  outside, 
their  officers  with  drawn  sabres  and  crape  sashes  on  horseback, 
the  drums  muffled,  the  fifes,  bells  tolling,  and  minute  guns, — 
all  this  was  very  solemn.  But  the  charm  was  the  entrance  of  the 
Abbey,  where  we  were  received  by  the  Dean  and  Chapter  in 
rich  robes,  the  choir  and  almsmen  bearing  torches;  the  whole 
Abbey  so  illuminated,  that  one  saw  it  to  greater  advantage  than 
by  day;  the  tombs,  long  aisles,  and  fretted  roof,  all  appearing 
distinctly,  and  with  the  happiest  chiaro  scuro.  There  wanted 
nothing  but  incense,  and  little  chapels  here  and  there,  with 
priests  saying  mass  for  the  repose  of  the  defunct;  yet  one  could 
not  complain  of  its  not  being  Catholic  enough.  .  .  .  When  we 
came  to  the  chapel  of  Henry  the  Seventh,  all  solemnity  and 
decorum  ceased.  No  order  was  observed,  people  sat  or  stood 
where  they  could  or  would ;  the  yeomen  of  the  guard  were  crying 
out  for  help,  oppressed  by  the  immense  weight  of  the  coffin. 
The  Bishop  read  sadly,  and  blundered  in  the  prayers;  the  fine 
chapter,  "  Man  that  is  born  of  woman,"  was  chanted,  not  read, 
and  the  anthem,  besides  being  immeasurably  tedious,  would 
have  served  as  well  for  a  nuptial.  The  real  serious  part  was  the 
figure  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  heightened  by  a  thousand 
melancholy  circumstances.  He  had  a  dark  brown  adonis,  and 
a  cloak  of  black  cloth,  with  a  train  of  five  yards.  Attending  the 
funeral  of  a  father  could  not  be  pleasant;  his  leg  extremely  bad, 
yet  forced  to  stand  upon  it  near  two  hours;  his  face  bloated  and 
distorted  with  his  late  paralytic  stroke,  which  has  affected,  too, 
one  of  his  eyes;  and  placed  over  the  mouth  of  the  vault,  into 
which,  in  all  probability,  he  must  himself  so  soon  descend;  — 
think  how  unpleasant  a  situation!  He  bore  it  all  with  a  firm 
and  unaffected  countenance.  This  grave  scene  was  fully  con- 
trasted by  the  burlesque  Duke  of  Newcastle.  He  fell  into  a  fit 
of  crying  the  moment  he  came  into  the  chapel,  and  flung  him- 
self back  in  a  stall,  the  Archbishop  hovering  over  him  with  a 


474  HORACE  WALPOLE 

smelling-bottle.  But  in  two  minutes  his  curiosity  got  the  bet- 
ter of  his  hypocrisy,  and  he  ran  about  the  chapel  with  his  glass 
to  spy  who  was  or  was  not  there,  spying  with  one  hand,  and 
mopping  his  eyes  with  the  other.  Then  returned  the  fear  of 
catching  cold;  and  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  who  was  sinking 
with  heat,  felt  himself  weighed  down,  and,  turning  round,  found 
it  was  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  standing  upon  his  train,  to  avoid 
the  chill  of  the  marble.  .  .  . 

TO  REV.   WILLIAM  COLE 

STRAWBERRY  HILL,  March  9,  1765. 

I  had  time  to  write  but  a  short  note  with  the  Castle  of 
Otranto,  as  your  messenger  called  on  me  at  four  o'clock,  as  I  was 
going  to  dine  abroad.  Your  partiality  to  me  and  Strawberry 
have,  I  hope,  inclined  you  to  excuse  the  wildness  of  the  story. 
You  will  even  have  found  some  traits  to  put  you  in  mind  of  this 
place.  When  you  read  of  the  picture  quitting  its  panel,1  did  not 
you  recollect  the  portrait  of  Lord  Falkland,  all  in  white,  in  my 
gallery  ?  Shall  I  even  confess  to  you  what  was  the  origin  of  this 
romance  ?  I  waked  one  morning,  in  the  beginning  of  last  June, 
from  a  dream,  of  which  all  I  could  recover  was  that  I  had 
thought  myself  in  an  ancient  castle  (a  very  natural  dream  for  a 
head  filled,  like  mine,  with  Gothic  story),  and  that  on  the 
uppermost  bannister  of  a  great  staircase  I  saw  a  gigantic  hand 
in  armor.  In  the  evening  I  sat  down,  and  began  to  write,  with- 
out knowing  in  the  least  what  I  intended  to  say  or  relate.  The 
work  grew  on  my  hands,  and  I  grew  fond  of  it;  —  add  that  I 
was  very  glad  to  think  of  anything  rather  than  politics.  In 
short,  I  was  so  engrossed  with  my  tale,  which  I  completed  in 
less  than  two  months,  that  one  evening  I  wrote  from  the  time  I 
had  drunk  my  tea,  about  six  o'clock,  till  half  an  hour  after  one 
in  the  morning,  when  my  hand  and  fingers  were  so  weary  that  I 
could  not  hold  the  pen  to  finish  the  sentence,  but  left  Matilda 
and  Isabella  talking,  in  the  middle  of  a  paragraph.  You  will 
laugh  at  my  earnestness;  but  if  I  have  amused  you  by  retracing 
with  any  fidelity  the  manners  of  ancient  days,  I  am  content,  and 
give  you  leave  to  think  me  as  idle  as  you  please.  .  .  . 

1  See  page  479,  below. 


LETTERS  47S 

TO  JOHN  CHUTE 

BATH,  October  10,  1766. 

.  .  .  My  health  advances  faster  than  my  amusement.  How- 
ever, I  have  been  at  one  opera,  —  Mr.  Wesley's.1  They  have  boys 
and  girls  with  charming  voices,  that  sing  hymns,  in  parts,  to 
Scotch  ballad  tunes;  but  indeed  so  long  that  one  would  think 
they  were  already  in  eternity,  and  knew  how  much  time  they 
had  before  them.  The  chapel  is  very  neat,  with  true  Gothic  win- 
dows (yet  I  am  not  converted) ;  but  I  was  glad  to  see  that  luxury 
is  creeping  in  upon  them  before  persecution :  they  have  very  neat 
mahogany  stands  for  branches,  and  brackets  of  the  same  taste. 
At  the  upper  end  is  abroad  hautpasoi  four  steps,  advancing  in 
the  middle ;  at  each  end  of  the  broadest  part  are  two  eagles,  with 
red  cushions  for  the  parson  and  clerk.  Behind  them  rise  three 
more  steps,  in  the  midst  of  which  is  a  third  eagle  for  pulpit. 
Scarlet  armed  chairs  to  all  three.  On  either  side,  a  balcony  for 
elect  ladies.  The  rest  of  the  congregation  sit  on  forms.  Behind 
the  pit, in  a  dark  niche, is  a  plain  table  within  rails;  so  you  see 
the  throne  is  for  the  apostle.   Wesley  is  a  lean  elderly  man, 
fresh-colored,  his  hair  smoothly  combed,  but  with  a  soupqon  of 
curl  at  the  ends.  Wondrous  clean,  but  as  evidently  an  actor  as 
Garrick.   He  spoke  his  sermon,  but  so  fast,  and  with  so  little 
accent,  that  I  am  sure  he  has  often  uttered  it,  for  it  was  like  a 
lesson.  There  were  parts  and  eloquence  in  it;  but  towards  the 
end  he  exalted  his  voice,  and  acted  very  ugly  enthusiasm; 
decried  learning,  and  told  stories.  .  .  . 

TO   SIR  HORACE  MANN 

STRAWBERRY  HILL,  November  24,  1774. 

.  .  .  The  old  French  Parliament  is  restored  with  great  eclat. 
Monsieur  de  Maurepas,  author  of  the  revolution,  was  received 
one  night  at  the  Opera  with  boundless  shouts  of  applause.  It  is 
even  said  that  the  mob  intended ,  when  the  King  should  go  to  hold 
the  lit  de  justice,  to  draw  his  coach.  How  singular  it  would  be 
if  Wilkes's  case  should  be  copied  for  a  king  of  France!  Do  you 
think  Rousseau  was  in  the  right,  when  he  said  that  he  could  tell 
what  would  be  the  manners  of  any  capital  city,  from  certain 
given  lights?  I  don't  know  what  he  may  do  on  Constantinople 
and  Pekin  —  but  Paris  and  London!  .  .  .  For  our  part,  I  re- 

1  That  is,  a  Methodist  meeting. 


476  HORACE  WALPOLE 

peat  it,  we  shall  contribute  nothing  to  the  Histoire  des  Mceurs, 
not  for  want  of  materials,  but  for  want  of  writers.  We  have 
comedies  without  novelty,  gross  satires  without  stings,  meta- 
physical eloquence,  and  antiquarians  that  discover  nothing. 

Boeotum  in  crasso  jurares  aere  nalost1 

Don't  tell  me  I  am  grown  old  and  peevish  and  supercilious,  — 
name  the  geniuses  of  1774,  and  I  submit.  The  next  Augustan 
age  will  dawn  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  There  will, 
perhaps,  be  aThucydides  at  Boston,  a  Xenophon  at  New  York, 
and,  in  time,  a  Virgil  at  Mexico,  and  a  Newton  at  Peru.  At 
last,  some  curious  traveler  from  Lima  will  visit  England,  and 
give  a  description  of  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's,  like  the  editions  of 
Balbec  and  Palmyra.  But  am  I  not  prophesying,  contrary  to  my 
consummate  prudence,  and  casting  horoscopes  of  empires  like 
Rousseau  ?  Yes;  well,  I  will  go  and  dream  of  my  visions. 

THE  CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO 
1764 

[On  the  origin  of  this  "Gothic  romance,"  see  Walpole's  letter  to  Rev. 
William  Cole,  quoted  on  page  474,  above.  It  was  published  as  a  transla- 
tion "from  the  original  Italian  of  Onuphrio  Muralto,"  —  the  original 
work,  so  the  Preface  stated,  having  been  printed  at  Naples,  in  black  letter, 
in  1529.  Considerable  interest  and  mystification  followed,  until,  in  a 
second  edition,  Walpole  admitted  the  fiction,  and  explained  his  intention 
as  being  "to  blend  the  two  kinds  of  romance,  the  ancient  and  the  mod- 
ern."] 

.  .  .  YOUNG  Conrad's  birthday  was  fixed  for  his  espousals. 
The  company  was  assembled  in  the  chapel  of  the  Castle,  and 
everything  ready  for  beginning  the  divine  office,  when  Conrad 
himself  was  missing.  Manfred,  impatient  of  the  least  delay,  and 
who  had  not  observed  his  son  retire,  despatched  one  of  his  at- 
tendants to  summon  the  young  Prince.  The  servant,  who  had 
not  stayed  long  enough  to  have  crossed  the  court  to  Conrad's 
apartment,  came  running  back  breathless,  in  a  frantic  manner, 
his  eyes  staring,  and  foaming  at  the  mouth.  He  said  nothing, 
but  pointed  to  the  court. 

The  company  were  struck  with  terror  and  amazement.  The 

1  "You  would  swear  they  were  born  in  the  stupefying  air  of  the  Boeotians." 


THE  CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO  477 

Princess  Hippolita,  without  knowing  what  was  the  matter,  but 
anxious  for  her  son,  swooned  away.  Manfred,  less  apprehensive 
than  enraged  at  the  procrastination  of  the  nuptials,  and  at  the 
folly  of  his  domestic,  asked  imperiously  what  was  the  matter? 
The  fellow  made  no  answer,  but  continued  pointing  towards  the 
court-yard;  and  at  last,  after  repeated  questions  put  to  him, 
cried  out,  ''Oh!  the  helmet!  the  helmet!" 

In  the  mean  time,  some  of  the  company  had  run  into  the 
court,  from  whence  was  heard  a  confused  noise  of  shrieks,  hor- 
ror, and  surprise.  Manfred,  who  began  to  be  alarmed  at  not 
seeing  his  son,  went  himself  to  get  information  of  what  occa- 
sioned this  strange  confusion.  Matilda  remained,  endeavoring 
to  assist  her  mother,  and  Isabella  stayed  for  the  same  purpose, 
and  to  avoid  showing  any  impatience  for  the  bridegroom,  — 
for  whom,  in  truth,  she  had  conceived  little  affection. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  Manfred's  eyes  was  a  group  of  his 
servants  endeavoring  to  raise  something  that  appeared  to  him 
a  mountain  of  sable  plumes.  He  gazed  without  believing  his 
sight. 

"  What  are  ye  doing?"  cried  Manfred  wrathfully.  "Where  is 
my  son?" 

A  volley  of  voices  replied,  "Oh,  my  lord!  the  prince,  the 
prince!  The  helmet,  the  helmet!" 

Shocked  with  these  lamentable  sounds,  and  dreading  he 
knew  not  what,  he  advanced  hastily,  but  —  what  a  sight  for 
a  father's  eyes!  —  he  beheld  his  child  dashed  to  pieces,  and  al- 
most buried  under  an  enormous  helmet,  an  hundred  times  more 
large  than  any  casque  ever  made  for  human  being,  and  shaded 
with  a  proportionable  quantity  of  black  feathers. 

The  horror  of  the  spectacle,  the  ignorance  of  all  around  how 
this  misfortune  had  happened,  and,  above  all,  the  tremendous 
phenomenon  before  him,  took  away  the  Prince's  speech.  Yet 
his  silence  lasted  longer  than  even  grief  could  occasion.  He 
fixed  his  eyes  on  what  he  wished  in  vain  to  believe  a  vision,  and 
seemed  less  attentive  to  his  loss  than  buried  in  meditation  on  the 
stupendous  object  that  had  occasioned  it.  He  touched,  he  ex- 
amined the  fatal  casque;  nor  could  even  the  bleeding,  mangled 
remains  of  the  young  prince  divert  the  eyes  of  Manfred  from 
the  portent  before  him.  .  .  . 

While  the  ladies  were  conveying  the  wretched  mother  to  her 


478  HORACE  WALPOLE 

bed,  Manfred  remained  in  the  court,  gazing  on  the  ominous 
casque,  and  regardless  of  the  crowd  which  the  strangeness  of 
the  event  had  now  assembled  around  him .  The  few  words  he  ar- 
ticulated tended  solely  to  inquiries  whether  any  man  knew  from 
whence  it  could  have  come.  Nobody  could  give  him  the  least 
information.  However,  as  it  seemed  to  be  the  sole  object  of  his 
curiosity,  it  soon  became  so  to  the  rest  of  the  spectators,  whose 
conjectures  were  as  absurd  and  improbable  as  the  catastrophe 
itself  was  unprecedented.  In  the  midst  of  their  senseless 
guesses,  a  young  peasant,  whom  rumor  had  drawn  thither  from 
a  neighboring  village,  observed  that  the  miraculous  helmet  was 
exactly  like  that  on  the  figure  in  black  marble  of  Alfonso  the 
Good,  one  of  their  former  princes,  in  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas. 

"Villain!  what  sayest  thou?"  cried  Manfred,  starting  from 
his  trance  in  a  tempest  of  rage,  and  seizing  the  young  man  by 
the  collar.  "How  darest  thou  utter  such  treason?  Thy  life 
shall  pay  for  it." 

The  spectators,  who  as  little  comprehended  the  cause  of  the 
Prince's  fury  as  all  the  rest  they  had  seen,  were  at  a  loss  to  un- 
ravel this  new  circumstance.  The  young  peasant  himself  was 
still  more  astonished,  not  conceiving  how  he  had  offended  the 
Prince.  Yet  recollecting  himself,  with  a  mixture  of  grace  and 
humility,  he  disengaged  himself  from  Manfred's  grip,  and 
then,  with  an  obeisance  which  discovered  more  jealousy  of  in- 
nocence than  dismay,  he  asked  with  respect  of  what  he  was 
guilty?  Manfred,  more  enraged  at  the  vigor,  however  decently 
exerted,  with  which  the  young  man  had  shaken  off  his  hold, 
than  appeased  by  his  submission,  ordered  his  attendants  to 
seize  him,  and,  if  he  had  not  been  withheld  by  his  friends 
whom  he  had  invited  to  the  nuptials,  would  have  poignarded 
the  peasant  in  their  arms. 

During  this  altercation,  some  of  the  vulgar  spectators  had 
run  to  the  great  church,  which  stood  near  the  Castle,  and  came 
back  open-mouthed,  declaring  that  the  helmet  was  missing 
from  Alfonso's  statue. 

[On  the  same  evening  Manfred  declares  to  Isabella,  who  was  to  have 
been  the  bride  of  his  son,  his  intention  to  divorce  his  wife  Hippolita,  and 
to  wed  her  instead.] 

...  At  those  words  he  seized  the  cold  hand  of  Isabella,  who 
was  half  dead  with  fright  and  horror.  She  shrieked,  and  started 


THE  CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO  479 

from  him.  Manfred  rose  to  pursue  her,  when  the  moon,  which- 
was  now  up,  and  gleamed  in  at  the  opposite  casement,  presented 
to  his  sight  the  plumes  of  the  fatal  helmet,  which  rose  to  the 
height  of  the  windows,  waving  backwards  and  forwards  in  a 
tempestuous  manner,  and  accompanied  with  a  hollow  and 
rustling  sound.  Isabella,  who  gathered  courage  from  her  situa- 
tion, and  who  dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  Manfred's  pursuit 
of  his  declaration,  cried:  — 

"Look,  my  lord!  See,  Heaven  itself  declares  against  your 
impious  intentions!" 

"  Heaven  nor  hell  shall  impede  my  designs,"  said  Manfred, 
advancing  again  to  seize  the  princess. 

At  that  instant  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather,  which  hung 
over  the  bench  where  they  had  been  sitting,  uttered  a  deep 
sigh,  and  heaved  its  breast.  Isabella,  whose  back  was  turned 
to  the  picture,  saw  not  the  motion,  nor  knew  whence  the  sound 
came,  but  started,  and  said,  "Hark,  my  lord!  What  sound 
was  that?"  and  at  the  same  time  made  towards  the  door. 

Manfred,  distracted  between  the  flight  of  Isabella,  who  had 
now  reached  the  stairs,  and  yet  unable  to  keep  his  eyes  from 
the  picture,  which  began  to  move,  had,  however,  advanced 
some  steps  after  her,  still  looking  backwards  on  the  portrait, 
when  he  saw  it  quit  its  panel,  and  descend  on  the  floor  with  a 
grave  and  melancholy  air. 

"Do  I  dream?"  cried  Manfred,  returning.  "Or  are  the 
devils  themselves  in  league  against  me?  Speak,  infernal 
spectre !  Or,  if  thou  art  my  grandsire,  why  dost  thou  too  con- 
spire against  thy  wretched  descendant,  who  too  dearly  pays 
for — "  Ere  he  could  finish  the  sentence,  the  vision  sighed 
again,  and  made  a  sign  to  Manfred  to  follow  him. 

"Lead  on!"  cried  Manfred.  "I  will  follow  thee  to  the  gulf 
of  perdition." 

The  spectre  marched  sedately,  but  dejected,  to  the  end  of 
the  gallery,  and  turned  into  a  chamber  on  the  right  hand. 
Manfred  accompanied  him  at  a  little  distance,  full  of  anxiety 
and  horror,  but  resolved.  As  he  would  have  entered  the  cham- 
ber, the  door  was  clapped  to  with  violence  by  an  invisible  hand. 


LAURENCE  STERNE 

THE  LIFE  AND  OPINIONS  OF  TRISTRAM  SHANDY, 
GENTLEMAN 

1759-67 

[The  first  two  volumes  of  this  unique  piece  of  fiction  were  published  in 
1759,  and  at  once  made  the  author's  reputation;  others  followed  at  inter- 
vals, the  ninth  and  last  in  1767.  (See  Walpole's  comment  on  the  work, 
page  47  2,  above.)  The  extracts  here  printed  are  intended  to  represent  both 
Sterne's  type  of  humor,  to  which  he  gave  the  name  "  Shandyism,"  and  the 
characteristic  vein  of  sentiment  which  gives  him  a  place  in  the  so-called 
"sentimental  movement."  They  are  from  Book  III,  chapter  xn;  Book 
VI,  chapters  xvm  and  xix;  Book  VII,  chapters  xxxi-xxxv;  Book  IX, 
chapter  xxiv.] 

[THE  CRITIC] 

...  I  'LL  undertake  this  moment  to  prove  it  to  any  man  in 
the  world,  except  to  a  connoisseur:  —  though  I  declare  I  object 
only  to  a  connoisseur  in  swearing,  —  as  I  would  do  to  a  con- 
noisseur in  painting,  etc.,  etc.,  the  whole  set  of  'em  are  so  hung 
round  and  befetished  with  the  bobs  and  trinkets  of  criticism,  — 
or,  to  drop  my  metaphor,  which  by  the  by  is  a  pity,  for  I  have 
fetched  it  as  far  as  from  the  coast  of  Guinea ;  —  their  heads, 
sir,  are  stuck  so  full  of  rules  and  compasses,  and  have  that 
eternal  propensity  to  apply  them  upon  all  occasions,  that  a 
work  of  genius  had  better  go  to  the  devil  at  once,  than  stand  to 
be  pricked  and  tortured  to  death  by  'em. 

—  "And  how  did  Garrick  speak  the  soliloquy  last  night?" 

"Oh,  against  all  rule,  my  lord, — most  ungrammatically! 
Betwixt  the  substantive  and  the  adjective,  which  should  agree 
together  in  number,  case,  and  gender,  he  made  a  breach  thus, — 
stopping,  as  if  the  point  wanted  settling;  —  and  betwixt  the 
nominative  case,  which  your  lordship  knows  should  govern  the 
verb,  he  suspended  his  voice  in  the  epilogue  a  dozen  times,  three 
seconds  and  three-fifths  by  a  stop-watch,  my  lord,  each  time." 

"Admirable  grammarian!  But  in  suspending  his  voice  — 
was  the  sense  suspended  likewise?  Did  no  expression  of  atti- 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY  48i 

tude  or  countenance  fill  up  the  chasm?   Was  the  eye  silent? 
Did  you  narrowly  look?  " 

"I  looked  only  at  the  stop-watch,  my  lord." 

"Excellent  observer!" 

"And  what  of  this  new  book  the  whole  world  makes  such  a 
rout  about?" 

"Oh,  't  is  out  of  all  plumb,  my  lord,  —  quite  an  irregular 
thing!  Not  one  of  the  angles  at  the  four  corners  was  a  right 
angle.  I  had  my  rule  and  compasses,  etc.,  my  lord,  in  my 
pocket." 

"Excellent  critic!" 

"And  for  the  epic  poem  your  lordship  bid  me  look  at,— 
upon  taking  the  length,  breadth,  height,  and  depth  of  it,  and 
trying  them  at  home  upon  an  exact  scale  of  Bossu's,  't  is  out, 
my  lord,  in  every  one  of  its  dimensions." 

"Admirable  connoisseur!" 

"And  did  you  step  in,  to  take  a  look  at  the  grand  picture  in 
your  way  back?" 

"  'T  is  a  melancholy  daub,  my  lord !  Not  one  principle  of  the 
pyramid  in  any  one  group!  And  what  a  price!  —  for  there  is 
nothing  of  the  coloring  of  Titian  —  the  expression  of  Rubens  — 
the  grace  of  Raphael  —  the  purity  of  Domenichino  —  the  cor- 
regiescity  of  Correggio  —  the  learning  of  Poussin  —  the  airs  of 
Guido  —  the  taste  of  the  Carrachis  —  or  the  grand  contour  of 
Angelo!" 

Grant  me  patience,  just  heaven!  Of  all  the  cants  which  are 
canted  in  this  canting  world,  though  the  cant  of  hypocrites  may 
be  the  worst,  the  cant  of  criticism  is  the  most  tormenting!  I 
would  go  fifty  miles  on  foot,  for  I  have  not  a  horse  worth  riding 
on,  to  kiss  the  hand  of  that  man  whose  generous  heart  will  give 
up  the  reins  of  his  imagination  into  his  author's  hands,  —  be 
pleased  he  knows  not  why,  and  cares  not  wherefore.  .  .  . 

[THE  BREECHING  OF  TRISTRAM] 

"We  should  begin,"  said  my  father,  turning  himself  half 
round  in  bed,  and  shifting  his  pillow  a  little  towards  my  mo- 
ther's, as  he  opened  the  debate,  —  "We  should  begin  to  think, 
Mrs.  Shandy,  of  putting  this  boy  into  breeches." 

"We  should  so,"  said  my  mother. 

"We  defer  it,  my  dear,"  quoth  my  father,  "shamefully." 


482  LAURENCE  STERNE 

"I  think  we  do,  Mr.  Shandy,"  said  my  mother. 

"Not  but  the  child  looks  extremely  well,"  said  my  father, 
"in  his  vests  and  tunics." 

"He  does  look  very  well  in  them,"  replied  my  mother. 

"And  for  that  reason  it  would  be  almost  a  sin,"  added  my 
father,  "to  take 'him  out  of  'em." 

"It  would  so,"  said  my  mother. 

"Butindeed  he  is  growing  a  very  tall  lad,"rejoined  my  father. 

"He  is  very  tall  for  his  age,  indeed,"  said  my  mother. 

"I  can  not  [making  two  syllables  of  it]  imagine,"  quoth  my 
father,  "who  the  deuce  he  takes  after." 

"I  cannot  conceive,  for  my  life,"  said  my  mother. 

"Humph!"  said  my  father. 

The  dialogue  ceased  for  a  moment. 

"I  am  very  short  myself,"  continued  my  father  gravely. 

"You  are  very  short,  Mr.  Shandy,"  said  my  mother. 

"Humph!"  quoth  my  father  to  himself,  a  second  time;  in 
muttering  which,  he  plucked  his  pillow  a  little  further  from  my 
mother's,  and  turning  about  again,  there  was  an  end  of  the  de- 
bate for  three  minutes  and  a  half. 

"When  he  gets  these  breeches  made,."  cried  my  father  in  a 
higher  tone,  "he'll  look  like  a  beast  in  'em." 

"He  will  be  very  awkward  in  them  at  first,"  replied  my  mo- 
ther. .  .  . 

"I  am  resolved,  however,"  quoth  my  father,  breaking  silence 
the  fourth  time,  "he  shall  have  no  pockets  in  them." 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  any,"  said  my  mother. 

"I  mean  in  his  coat  and  waistcoat,"  cried  my  father. 

"I  mean  so  too,"  replied  my  mother. 

"Though  if  he  gets  a  gig  or  top  —  poor  souls!  it  is  a  crown 
and  a  sceptre  to  them  —  they  should  have  where  to  secure 
it." 

"  Order  it  as  you  please,  Mr.  Shandy,"  replied  my  mother. 

"But  don't  you  think  it  right?"  added  my  father,  pressing 
the  point  home  to  her. 

"Perfectly,"  said  my  mother,  "if  itpleases  you,  Mr.  Shandy." 

"There's  for  you!"  cried  my  father,  losing  temper.  "Pleases 
me!  You  never  will  distinguish,  Mrs.  Shandy,  nor  shall  I  ever 
teach  you  to  do  it,  betwixt  a  point  of  pleasure  and  point  of 
convenience." 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY  483 

This  was  on  the  Sunday  night,  and  further  this  chapter  say- 
eth  not. 

After  my  father  had  debated  the  affair  of  the  breeches  with 
my  mother,  he  consulted  Albertus  Rubenius  upon  it;  and  Al- 
bertus  Rubenius  used  my  father  ten  times  worse  in  the  consult- 
ation (if  possible)  than  even  my  father  had  used  my  mother. 
For  as  Rubenius  had  wrote  a  quarto  express,  De  re  -oestiaria 
veterum,  it  was  Rubenius's  business  to  have  given  my  father 
some  lights.  On  the  contrary,  my  father  might  as  well  have 
thought  of  extracting  the  seven  cardinal  virtues  out  of  a  long 
beard,  as  of  extracting  a  single  word  out  of  Rubenius  upon  the 
subject. 

Upon  every  other  article  of  ancient  dress,  Rubenius  was  very 
communicative  to  my  father;  —  gave  him  a  full  and  satisfac' 
tory  account  of  — 

The  Toga,  or  loose  gown. 

The  Chlamys. 

The  Ephod. 

The  Tunica,  or  Jacket. 

The  Synthesis. 

The  Paenula. 

The  Lacerna,  with  its  Cucullus. 

The  Paludamentum. 

The  Praetexta. 

The  Sagum,  or  soldier's  jerkin. 

The  Trabea:  of  which,  according   to  Suetonius, 

there  were  three  kinds. 

"But  what  are  all  these  to  the  breeches?"  said  my  father. 
Rubenius  threw  him  down  upon  the  counter  all  kinds  of  shoes 
which  had  been  in  fashion  with  the  Romans.  There  was  — 

The  open  shoe. 

The  close  shoe. 

The  slip  shoe. 

The  wooden  shoe. 

The  soc. 

The  buskin. 
And  The   military  shoe   with    hobnails   in   it,  which 

Juvenal  takes  notice  of. 
There  were  The  clogs. 

The  pattins. 


484  LAURENCE  STERNE 

The  pantoufles. 

The  brogues. 

The  sandals,  with  latchets  to  them. 
There  was  The  felt  shoe. 

The  linen  shoe. 

The  laced  shoe. 

The  braided  shoe. 

The  calceus  incisus. 
And  The  calceus  rostratus. 

Rubenius  showed  my  father  how  well  they  all  fitted,  —  in 
what  manner  they  laced  on,  —  with  what  points,  straps, 
thongs,  latchets,  ribbons,  jags,  and  ends. 

"But  I  want  to  be  informed  about  the  breeches,"  said  my 
father. 

Albertus  Rubenius  informed  my  father  that  the  Romans 
manufactured  stuffs  of  various  fabrics,  —  some  plain,  some 
striped,  others  diapered  throughout  the  whole  contexture  of  the 
wool  with  silk  and  gold ;  —  that  linen  did  not  begin  to  be  in 
common  use  till  towards  the  declension  of  the  empire,  when  the 
Egyptians,  coming  to  settle  amongst  them,  brought  it  into 
vogue.  That  persons  of  quality  and  fortune  distinguished 
themselves  by  the  fineness  and  whiteness  of  their  clothes, 
which  color  (next  to  purple,  which  was  appropriated  to  the 
great  offices)  they  most  affected,  and  wore  on  their  birthdays 
and  public  rejoicings.  That  it  appeared  from  the  best  histo- 
rians of  those  times  that  they  frequently  sent  their  clothes  to 
the  fuller,  to  be  cleaned  and  whitened;  but  that  the  inferior 
people,  to  avoid  that  expense,  generally  wore  brown  clothes, 
and  of  a  something  coarser  texture,  —  till  towards  the  begin- 
ning of  Augustus's  reign,  when  the  slave  dressed  like  his 
master,  and  almost  every  distinction  of  habiliment  was  lost, 
but  the  latus  clavus. 

"And  what  was  the  latus  clavus?"  said  my  father. 
Rubenius  told  him  that  the  point  was  still  litigating  amongst 
the  learned;  that  Egnatius,  Sigonius,  Bossius  Ticinensis,  Bay- 
fius,  Budaeus,  Salmasius,  Lipsius,  Lazius,  Isaac  Casaubon,  and 
Joseph  Scaliger  all  differed  from  each  other,  and  he  from  them. 
That  some  took  it  to  be  the  button,  some  the  coat  itself,  - 
others  only  the  color  of  it;  —  that  the  great  Bayfius,  in  his 
Wardrobe  of  the  Ancients,  chap.  12,  honestly  said  he  knew  not 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY  485 

what  it  was,  —  whether  a  tibula,  a  stud,  a  button,  a  loop,  a 
buckle,  or  clasps  and  keepers. 

My  father  lost  the  horse,  but  not  the  saddle.  "They  are 
hooks  and  eyes,"  said  my  father.  And  with  hooks  and  eyes  he 
ordered  my  breeches  to  be  made. 

[AT  LYONS] 

.  .  .  Having  called  for  my  bill,  as  it  was  uncertain  whether  I 
should  return  to  my  inn,  I  had  paid  it,  had  moreover  given  the 
maid  ten  sous,  and  was  just  receiving  the  dernier  compliments 
of  Monsieur  Le  Blanc,  for  a  pleasant  voyage  down  the  Rhone, 
when  I  was  stopped  at  the  gate. 

'T  was  by  a  poor  ass,  who  had  just  turned  in  with  a  couple  of 
large  panniers  upon  his  back,  to  collect  eleemosynary  turnip- 
tops  and  cabbage-leaves,  and  stood  dubious,  with  his  two  fore- 
feet on  the  inside  of  the  threshold,  and  with  his  two  hinder  feet 
towards  the  street,  as  not  knowing  very  well  whether  he  was 
to  go  in  or  no. 

Now  't  is  an  animal  (be  in  what  hurry  I  may)  I  cannot  bear 
to  strike;  —  there  is  a  patient  endurance  of  sufferings  wrote  so 
unaffectedly  in  his  looks  and  carriage,  which  pleads  so  mightily 
for  him  that  it  always  disarms  me,  and  to  that  degree  that  I  do 
not  like  to  speak  unkindly  to  him.  On  the  contrary,  meet  him 
where  I  will,  —  whether  in  town  or  country,  in  cart  or  under 
panniers,  whether  in  liberty  or  bondage,  —  I  have  ever  some- 
thing civil  to  say  to  him  on  my  part;  and  as  one  word  begets  an- 
other (if  he  has  as  little  to  do  as  I),  I  generally  fall  into  conver- 
sation with  him.  And  surely  never  is  my  imagination  so  busy 
as  in  framing  his  responses  from  the  etchings  of  his  countenance, 
and,  where  those  carry  me  not  deep  enough,  in  flying  from  my 
own  heart  into  his,  and  seeing  what  is  natural  for  an  ass  to 
think  —  as  well  as  a  man  —  upon  the  occasion.  In  truth,  it  is 
the  only  creature  of  all  the  classes  of  beings  below  me  with 
whom  I  can  do  this;  for  parrots,  jackdaws,  etc.,  I  never  ex- 
change a  word  with  them,  nor  with  the  apes,  etc.,  for  pretty 
near  the  same  reason;  they  act  by  rote,  as  the  others  speak  by 
it,  and  equally  make  me  silent.  Nay,  my  dog  and  my  cat, 
though  I  value  them  both  (and  for  my  dog  he  would  speak  if  he 
could),  yet  somehow  or  other  they  neither  of  them  possess  the 
talents  for  conversation;  —  I  can  make  nothing  of  a  discourse 


486  LAURENCE  STERNE 

with  them,  beyond  the  proposition,  the  reply,  and  the  rejoinder, 
which  terminated  my  father's  and  my  mother's  conversations 
in  his  beds  of  justice,  and  those  uttered,  there's  an  end  of  the 
dialogue  —  But  with  an  ass  I  can  commune  forever. 

"Come,  Honesty,"  said  I,  —  seeing  it  was  impracticable  to 
pass  betwixt  him  and  the  gate,  —  "art  thou  for  coming  in.  or 
going  out?" 

The  ass  twisted  his  head  round  to  look  up  the  street.  "Well," 
replied  I,  "we'll  wait  a  minute  for  thy  driver." 

He  turned  his  head  thoughtful  about,  and  looked  wistfully 
the  opposite  way.  "I  understand  thee  perfectly,"  answered  I. 
"  If  thou  takest  a  wrong  step  in  this  affair,  he  will  cudgel  thee 
to  death.  Well !  a  minute  is  but  a  minute,  and  if  it  saves  a  fel- 
low-creature a  drubbing,  it  shall  not  be  set  down  as  ill  spent." 

He  was  eating  the  stem  of  an  artichoke  as  this  discourse  went 
on,  and  in  the  little  peevish  contentions  of  nature  betwixt  hun- 
ger and  unsavoriness,  had  dropped  it  out  of  his  mouth  half  a 
dozen  times,  and  picked  it  up  again.  "God  help  thee,  Jack!" 
said  I,  "  thou  hast  a  bitter  breakfast  on 't,  and  many  a  bitter 
day's  labor,  and  many  a  bitter  blow,  I  fear,  for  its  wages;  't  is 
all  —  all  bitterness  to  thee,  whatever  life  is  to  others.  And  now 
thy  mouth,  if  one  knew  the  truth  of  it,  is  as  bitter,  I  dare  say, 
as  soot"  (for  he  had  cast  aside  the  stem),  "and  thou  hast  not 
a  friend,  perhaps,  in  all  this  world,  that  will  give  thee  a  maca- 
roon." —  In  saying  this,  I  pulled  out  a  paper  of  'em,  which  I 
had  just  purchased,  and  gave  him  one;  and  at  this  moment  that 
I  am  telling  it,  my  heart  smites  me,  that  there  was  more  of 
pleasantry  in  the  conceit,  of  seeing  how  an  ass  would  eat  a 
macaroon,  than  of  benevolence  hi  giving  him  one,  which  pre- 
sided in  the  act. 

When  the  ass  had  eaten  his  macaroon,  I  pressed  him  to  come 
in.  The  poor  beast  was  heavy  loaded;  his  legs  seemed  to  trem- 
ble under  him ;  he  hung  rather  backwards,  and  as  I  pulled  at  his 
halter  it  broke  short  in  my  hand.  He  looked  up  pensive  in  my 
face,  — "Don't  thrash  me  with  it,  — but  if  you  will,  you  may." 
"If  I  do,"  said  I,  "I '11  bed d." 

The  word  was  but  one-half  of  it  pronounced,  like  the  abbess 
of  Andouillets'  (so  there  was  no  sin  in  it),  when  a  person 
coming  in  let  fall  a  thundering  bastinado  upon  the  poor  devil's 
cropper,  which  put  an  end  to  the  ceremony. 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY  487 

...  It  was  a  commissary  sent  to  me  from  the  post-office, 
with  a  rescript  in  his  hand  for  the  payment  of  some  six  livres 
odd  sous. 

"Upon  what  account  ? "  said  I.  " 'T  is  upon  the  part  of  the 
king,"  replied  the  commissary,  heaving  up  both  his  shoulders. 

"My  good  friend,"  quoth  I,  "as  sure  as  I  am  I  —  and  you 
are  you"  — 

"And  who  are  you?"  said  he.  "Don't  puzzle  me,"  said  I. 
"But  it  is  an  indubitable  verity,"  continued  I,  addressing  my- 
self to  the  commissary,  changing  only  the  form  of  my  assevera- 
tion, "  that  I  owe  the  king  of  France  nothing  but  my  good- will; 
for  he  is  a  very  honest  man,  and  I  wish  him  all  health  and  pas- 
time in  the  world"  — 

" Pardonnez-moi"  replied  the  commissary,  "you  are  in- 
debted to  him  six  livres  four  sous,  for  the  next  post  from  hence 
to  St.  Fons,  in  your  route  to  Avignon,  —  which  being  a  post 
royal,  you  pay  double  for  the  horses  and  postilion,  —  other- 
wise 't  would  have  amounted  to  no  more  than  three  livres  two 
sous." 

"But  I  don't  go  by  land,"  said  I. 

"You  may  if  you  please,"  replied  the  commissary. 

"Your  most  obedient  servant,"  said  I,  —  making  him  a  low 
bow. 

The  commissary,  with  all  the  sincerity  of  grave  good  breeding, 
made  me  one,  as  low  again.  I  never  was  more  disconcerted 
with  a  bow  in  my  life.  "The  devil  take  the  serious  character  of 
these  people!"  quoth  I  (aside);  "they  understand  no  more  of 
irony  than  this  — •" 

The  comparison  was  standing  close  by  with  his  panniers,  but 
something  sealed  up  my  lips,  —  I  could  not  pronounce  the 
name. 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  collecting  myself, "  it  is  not  my  intention  to  take 

post." 

"But  you  may,"  said  he, persisting  in  his  first  reply,-  "you 
may  take  post  if  you  choose." 

"And  I  may  take  salt  to  my  pickled  herring,"  said  I,  "if 
I  choose.  But  I  do  not  choose." 

"  But  you  must  pay  for  it,  whether  you  do  or  no." 

"Aye!  for  the  salt,"  said  I;  "I  know" 

"And  for  the  post  too,"  added  he. 


488  LAURENCE  STERNE 

"Defend  me!"  cried  I.  "I  travel  by  water,  —  I  am  going 
down  the  Rhone  this  very  afternoon ;  my  baggage  is  in  the  boat, 
and  I  have  actually  paid  nine  livres  for  my  passage." 

"C'est  tout  egal,  —  't  is  all  one,"  said  he. 

"Bon  Dieul  What,  pay  for  the  way  I  go,  and  for  the  way  I 
do  not  go!" 

"C'est  tout  egal,"  replied  the  commissary. 

"The  devil  it  is!"  said  I.  "But  I  will  go  to  ten  thousand 
Bastilles  first.  O  England!  England!  thou  land  of  liberty,  and 
climate  of  good  sense!  thou  tenderest  of  mothers  and  gentlest 
of  nurses,"  cried  I,  kneeling  upon  one  knee,  as  I  was  beginning 
my  apostrophe.  .  .  .  "  'T  is  contrary  to  the  law  of  nature. 
'T  is  contrary  to  reason.  'T  is  contrary  to  the  Gospel." 

"But  not  to  this,"  said  he,  putting  a  printed  paper  into  my 

hand,  — 

Par  Le  Roy. 

"'Tis  a  pithy  prolegomenon,"  quoth  I;  and  so  read  on, 


"By  all  which  it  appears,"  quoth  I,  having  read  it  over,  a 
little  too  rapidly,  "that  if  a  man  sets  out  in  a  post-chaise  from 
Paris,  he  must  go  on  traveling  in  one  all  the  days  of  his  life, — 
or  pay  for  it." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  commissary;  "the  spirit  of  the  ordin- 
ance is  this,  —  that  if  you  set  out  with  an  intention  of  running 
post  from  Paris  to  Avignon,  etc.,  you  shall  not  change  that 
intention  or  mode  of  traveling,  without  first  satisfying  the 
fermiers  for  two  posts  further  than  the  place  you  repent  at. 
And  'tis  founded,"  continued  he, "  upon  this,  that  the  revenues 
are  not  to  fall  short  through  your  fickleness." 

" O  by  heavens ! "  cried  I.  "If  fickleness  is  taxable  in  France, 
we  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  make  the  best  peace  with  you  we 
can." 

And  so  the  peace  was  made.  .  .  . 

[MARIA] 

...  I  was  in  the  most  perfect  state  of  bounty  and  good- will, 
and  felt  the  kindliest  harmony  vibrating  within  me,  with  every 
oscillation  of  the  chaise  alike;  so  that  whether  the  roads  were 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY  489 

rough  or  smooth,  it  made  no  difference;  everything  I  saw  or 
had  to  do  with  touched  upon  some  secret  spring  either  of  sen- 
timent or  rapture. 

They  were  the  sweetest  notes  I  ever  heard;  and  I  instantly 
let  down  the  fore-glass  to  hear  them  more  distinctly.  "  T  is 
Maria,"  said  the  postilion,  observing  I  was  listening.  "Poor 
Maria,"  continued  he,  leaning  his  body  on  one  side  to  let  me  see 
her,  for  he  was  in  a  line  betwixt  us,  "is  sitting  upon  a  bank  play- 
ing her  vespers  upon  her  pipe,  with  her  little  goat  beside  her." 

The  young  fellow  uttered  this  with  an  accent  and  a  look  so 
perfectly  in  tune  to  a  feeling  heart,  that  I  instantly  made  a  vow 
I  would  give  him  a  four-and-twenty  sous  piece,  when  I  got  to 
Moulins. 

"And  who  is  poor  Maria?"  said  I. 

"The  love  and  pity  of  all  the  villages  around  us,"  said  the 
postilion.  "  It  is  but  three  years  ago,  that  the  sun  did  not  shine 
upon  so  fair,  so  quick-witted  and  amiable  a  maid;  and  better 
fate  did  Maria  deserve  than  to  have  her  banns  forbid,  by  the 
intrigues  of  the  curate  of  the  parish  who  published  them  — 

He  was  going  on,  when  Maria,  who  had  made  a  short  pause, 
put  the  pipe  to  her  mouth,  and  began  the  air  again.  They  were 
the  same  notes,  yet  were  ten  times  sweeter.  "It  is  the  evening 
service  to  the  Virgin,"  said  the  young  man;  "but  who  has 
taught  her  to  play  it,  or  how  she  came  by  her  pipe,  no  one 
knows.  We  think  that  Heaven  has  assisted  her  in  both,  for 
ever  since  she  has  been  unsettled  in  her  mind,  it  seems  her  only 
consolation;  she  has  never  once  had  the  pipe  out  of  her  hand, 
but  plays  that  service  upon  it  almost  night  and  day." 

The  postilion  delivered  this  with  so  much  discretion  and 
natural  eloquence,  that  I  could  not  help  deciphering  something 
in  his  face  above  his  condition,  and  should  have  sifted  out  his 
history,  had  not  poor  Maria  taken  such  full  possession  of  me.^ 

We  had  got  up,  by  this  time,  almost  to  the  bank  where  Maria 
was  sitting:  she  was  in  a  thin  white  jacket,  with  her  hair  —all 
but  two  tresses  —  drawn  up  into  a  silk  net,  with  a  few  olive 
leaves  twisted  a  little  fantastically  on  one  side.  She  was  beauti- 
ful; and  if  ever  I  felt  the  full  force  of  an  honest  heart-ache,  it 
was  the  moment  I  saw  her. 

"  God  help  her,  poor  damsel !  Above  a  hundred  masses,"  said 
the  postilion,  "have  been  said  in  the  several  parish  churches 


490  LAURENCE  STERNE 

and  convents  around,  for  her,  but  without  effect.  We  have  still 
hopes,  as  she  is  sensible  for  short  intervals,  that  the  Virgin  at 
last  will  restore  her  to  herself;  but  her  parents, who  know  her 
best,  are  hopeless  upon  that  score,  and  think  her  senses  are  lost 
forever." 

As  the  postilion  spoke  this,  Maria  made  a  cadence  so  mel- 
ancholy, so  tender  and  querulous,  that  I  sprung  out  of  the 
chaise  to  help  her,  and  found  myself  sitting  betwixt  her  and  her 
goat  before  I  relapsed  from  my  enthusiasm. 

Maria  looked  wistfully  for  some  time  at  me,  and  then  at  her 
goat,  —  and  then  at  me,  —  and  then  at  her  goat  again,  and  so 
on,  alternately. 

"Well,  Maria,"  said  I,  softly,  "what  resemblance  do  you 
find?" 

I  do  entreat  the  candid  reader  to  believe  me,  that  it  was  from 
the  humblest  conviction  of  what  a  beast  man  is,  that  I  asked  the 
question;  and  that  I  would  not  have  let  fall  an  unseasonable 
pleasantry  in  the  venerable  presence  of  Misery,  to  be  entitled 
to  all  the  wit  that  ever  Rabelais  scattered.  And  yet  I  own  my 
heart  smote  me,  and  that  I  so  smarted  at  the  very  idea  of  it, 
that  I  swore  I  would  set  up  for  wisdom,  and  utter  grave  sen- 
tences the  rest  of  my  days,  and  never  —  never  attempt  again  to 
commit  mirth  with  man,  woman,  or  child,  the  longest  day  I  had 
to  live. 

As  for  writing  nonsense  to  them,  I  believe  there  was  a  reserve, 
—  but  that  I  leave  to  the  world. 

Adieu,  Maria!  Adieu,  poor  helpless  damsel!  Some  time,  but 
not  now,  I  may  hear  thy  sorrows  from  thy  own  lips. — But  I  was 
deceived;  for  that  moment  she  took  her  pipe,  and  told  me  such 
a  tale  of  woe  with  it  that  I  rose  up,  and  with  broken  and  irregu- 
lar steps  walked  softly  to  my  chaise. 

A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  THROUGH  FRANCE 

AND  ITALY 

1768 

PREFACE:  IN  THE  D£SOBLIGEANT 

IT  must  have  been  observed  by  many  a  peripatetic  philoso- 
pher, that  Nature  has  set  up  by  her  own  unquestionable  au- 
thority certain  boundaries  and  fences  to  circumscribe  the  dis- 


A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  491 

content  of  man;  she  has  effected  her  purpose  in  the  quietest  and 
easiest  manner,  by  laying  him  under  almost  insuperable  obliga- 
tions to  work  out  his  ease,  and  to  sustain  his  suffering  at  home. 
It  is  there  only  that  she  has  provided  him  with  the  most  suit- 
able objects  to  partake  of  his  happiness,  and  bear  a  part  of  that 
burden  which,  in  all  countries  and  ages,  has  ever  been  too  heavy 
for  one  pair  of  shoulders.  'T  is  true  we  are  endued  with  an  im- 
perfect power  of  spreading  our  happiness  sometimes  beyond 
her  limits,  but 't  is  so  ordered  that,  from  the  want  of  languages, 
connections,  and  dependencies,  and  from  the  difference  in  edu- 
cations, customs,  and  habits,  we  lie  under  so  many  impedi- 
ments in  communicating  our  sensations  out  of  our  own  sphere, 
as  often  amount  to  a  total  impossibility. 

It  will  always  follow  from  hence  that  the  balance  of  senti- 
mental commerce  is  always  against  the  expatriated  adventurer: 
he  must  buy  what  he  has  little  occasion  for,  at  their  own  price; 
his  conversation  will  seldom  be  taken  in  exchange  for  theirs 
without  a  large  discount ;  and  this,  by  the  by,  eternally  driving 
him  into  the  hands  of  more  equitable  brokers,  for  such  conversa- 
tion as  he  can  find,  it  requires  no  great  spirit  of  divination  to 
guess  at  his  party. 

This  brings  me  to  my  point,  and  naturally  leads  me  (if  the 
see-saw  of  this  Desobligeant  will  but  let  me  get  on)  into  the  effi- 
cient as  well  as  final  causes  of  traveling.  Your  idle  people  that 
leave  their  native  country  and  go  abroad  for  some  reason  or 
reasons  which  may  be  derived  from  one  of  these  general 
causes  — 

Infirmity  of  body, 

Imbecility  of  the  mind,  or 

Inevitable  necessity. 

The  two  first  include  all  those  who  travel  by  land  or  by  water, 
laboring  with  pride,  curiosity,  vanity,  or  spleen,  subdivided 
and  combined  in  infinitum. 

The  third  class  includes  the  whole  army  of  peregrine  mar- 
tyrs; more  especially  those  travelers  who  set  out  upon  their 
travels  with  the  benefit  of  the  clergy,  either  as  delinquents 
traveling  under  the  direction  of  governors  recommended  by  the 
magistrate,  or  young  gentlemen  transported  by  the  cruelty  of 
parents  and  guardians,  and  traveling  under  the  direction  of 
governors  recommended  by  Oxford,  Aberdeen,  and  Glasgow. 


492  LAURENCE  STERNE 

There  is  a  fourth  class,  but  their  number  is  so  small  that  they 
would  not  deserve  a  distinction,  was  it  not  necessary  in  a  work 
of  this  nature  to  observe  the  greatest  precision  and  nicety,  to 
avoid  a  confusion  of  character.  And  these  men  I  speak  of  are 
such  as  cross  the  seas  and  sojourn  in  a  land  of  strangers,  for 
various  reasons  and  upon  various  pretences ;  but  as  they  might 
also  save  themselves  and  others  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary 
trouble  by  saving  their  money  at  home,  and  as  their  reasons  for 
traveling  are  the  least  complex  of  any  other  species  of  emi- 
grants, I  shall  distinguish  these  gentlemen  by  the  name  of 

Simple  Travelers. 

Thus  the  whole  circle  of  travelers  may  be  reduced  to  the  fol- 
lowing heads: 

Idle  Travelers, 

Inquisitive  Travelers, 

Lying  Travelers, 

Proud  Travelers, 

Vain  Travelers, 

Splenetic  Travelers ; 
then  follow  the  Travelers  of  Necessity, 

The  delinquent  and  felonious  Traveler, 

The  unfortunate  and  innocent  Traveler, 

The  simple  Traveler, 
And  last  of  all  (if  you  please) 

The  Sentimental  Traveler, 

meaning  thereby  myself,  who  have  traveled,  and  of  which  I  am 
now  sitting  down  to  give  an  account,  —  as  much  out  of  neces- 
sity, and  the  besoin  de  voyager,  as  any  one  in  the  class.  .  .  . 

NAMPONT 

"  And  this,"  said  he,  putting  the  remains  of  a  crust  into  his 
wallet,—  "and  this  should  have  been  thy  portion,"  said  he, 
"hadst  thou  been  alive  to  have  shared  it  with  me." 

I  thought  by  the  accent  it  had  been  an  apostrophe  to  his  child ; 
but  'twas  to  his  ass,  and  to  the  very  ass  we  had  seen  dead  in  the 
road,  which  had  occasioned  La  Fleur's  misadventure.  The  man 
seemed  to  lament  it  much,  and  it  instantly  brought  into  my 
mind  Sancho's  lamentation  for  his;  but  he  did  it  with  more  true 
touches  of  nature. 

The  mourner  was  sitting  upon  a  stone  bench  at  the  door, 


A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  493 

with  the  ass's  pannel  and  its  bridle  on  one  side,  which  he  took 
up  from  time  to  time,  then  laid  them  down,  looked  at  them, 
and  shook  his  head.  He  then  took  his  crust  of  bread  out  of  his 
wallet  again,  as  if  to  eat  it,  held  it  some  time  in  his  hand,  then 
laid  it  upon  the  bit  of  his  ass's  bridle,  —  looked  wistfully  at  the 
little  arrangement  he  had  made,  and  then  gave  a  sigh. 

The  simplicity  of  his  grief  drew  numbers  about  him,  and  La 
Fleur  amongst  the  rest,  whilst  the  horses  were  getting  ready;  as 
I  continued  sitting  in  the  post-chaise,  I  could  see  and  hear  over 
their  heads. 

He  said  he  had  come  last  from  Spain,  where  he  had  been  from 
the  furthest  borders  of  Franconia,  and  had  got  so  far  on  his 
return  home,  when  his  ass  died.  Every  one  seemed  desirous  to 
know  what  business  could  have  taken  so  old  and  poor  a  man  so 
far  a  journey  from  his  own  home. 

It  had  pleased  Heaven,  he  said,  to  bless  him  with  three  sons, 
the  finest  lads  in  all  Germany;  but  having  in  one  week  lost  two 
of  the  eldest  of  them  by  the  smallpox,  and  the  youngest  falling 
ill  of  the  same  distemper,  he  was  afraid  of  being  bereft  of  them 
all,  and  made  a  vow,  if  Heaven  would  not  take  him  from  him 
also,  he  would  go  in  gratitude  to  St.  lago  in  Spain. 

When  the  mourner  got  thus  far  on  his  story,  he  stopped  to 
pay  nature  his  tribute,  —  and  wept  bitterly.  He  said  Heaven 
had  accepted  the  conditions,  and  that  he  had  set  out  from  his 
cottage  with  this  poor  creature,  who  had  been  a  patient  part- 
ner of  his  journey,  —  that  it  had  eat  the  same  bread  with 
him  all  the  way,  and  was  unto  him  as  a  friend. 

Everybody  who  stood  about  heard  the  poor  fellow  with  con- 
cern. La  Fleur  offered  him  money;  —  the  mourner  said  he  did 
not  want  it,  —  it  was  not  the  value  of  the  ass,  but  the  loss  of 
him.  The  ass,  he  said,  he  was  assured  loved  him;  and  upon  this 
told  them  a  long  story  of  a  mischance  upon  their  passage  over 
the  Pyrenean  mountains,  which  had  separated  them  from  each 
other  three  days,  during  which  time  the  ass  had  sought  him  as 
much  as  he  had  sought  the  ass,  and  that  they  had  neither  scarce 
eat  or  drank  till  they  met. 

"  Thou  hast  one  comfort,  friend,"  said  I, "  at  least,  in  the  loss 
of  thy  poor  beast.  I  'm  sure  thou  hast  been  a  merciful  master  to 
him." 

"  Alas! "  said  the  mourner,  "  I  thought  so,  when  he  was  alive; 


494  LAURENCE  STERNE 

but  now  that  he  is  dead  I  think  otherwise.  I  fear  the  weight  of 
myself  and  my  afflictions  together  have  been  too  much  for  him, 
—  they  have  shortened  the  poor  creature's  days,  and  I  fear  I 
have  them  to  answer  for." 

Shame  on  this  world!  said  I  to  myself.  Did  we  love  each 
other  as  this  poor  soul  but  loved  his  ass,  't  would  be  something. 

PARIS 

When  I  got  home  to  my  hotel,  La  Fleur  told  me  I  had  been 
inquired  after  by  the  Lieutenant  de  Police.  "  The  deuce  take 
it!"  said  I;  "  I  know  the  reason."  It  is  time  the  reader  should 
know  it,  for  in  the  order  of  things  in  which  it  happened,  it  was 
omitted ;  not  that  it  was  out  of  my  head,  but  that,  had  I  told  it 
then,  it  might  have  been  forgot  now,  —  and  now  is  the  tune  I 
want  it. 

I  had  left  London  with  so  much  precipitation  that  it  never 
entered  my  mind  that  we  were  at  war  with  France;  and  had 
reached  Dover,  and  had  looked  through  my  glass  at  the  hills 
beyond  Boulogne,  before  the  idea  presented  itself,  and  with 
this  in  its  train,  —  that  there  was  no  getting  there  without  a 
passport.  Go  but  to  the  end  of  a  street,  I  have  a  mortal  aver- 
sion for  returning  back  no  wiser  than  I  set  out;  and  as  this  was 
one  of  the  greatest  efforts  I  had  ever  made  for  knowledge,  I 
could  less  bear  the  thoughts  of  it.  So,  hearing  the  Count  de 

had  hired  the  packet,  I  begged  he  would  take  me  in  his 

suite.  The  Count  had  some  little  knowledge  of  me,  so  made 
little  or  no  difficulty,  —  only  said  his  inclination  to  serve  me 
could  reach  no  further  than  Calais,  as  he  was  to  return  by  way 
of  Brussels  to  Paris;  however,  when  I  had  once  passed  there,  I 
might  get  to  Paris  without  interruption;  but  that  in  Paris  I 
must  make  friends  and  shift  for  myself.  "  Let  me  get  to  Paris, 
Monsieur  Count,"  said  I,  "  and  I  shall  do  very  well."  So  I  em- 
barked, and  never  thought  more  of  the  matter. 

When  La  Fleur  told  me  the  Lieutenant  de  Police  had  been 
inquiring  after  me,  the  thing  instantly  recurred,  and  by  the 
time  La  Fleur  had  well  told  me,  the  master  of  the  hotel  came 
into  my  room  to  tell  me  the  same  thing,  with  this  addition  to 
it,  that  my  passport  had  been  particularly  asked  after.  The 
master  of  the  hotel  concluded  with  saying  he  hoped  I  had  one. 
"Not  I,  faith!"  said  I.  The  master  of  the  hotel  retired  three 


A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  495 

steps  from  me,  as  from  an  infected  person,  as  I  declared  this; 
and  poor  La  Fleur  advanced  three  steps  towards  me,  and  with 
that  sort  of  movement  which  a  good  soul  makes  to  succor  a  dis- 
tressed one;  —  the  fellow  won  my  heart  by  it,  and  from  that 
single  trait  I  knew  his  character  as  perfectly,  and  could  rely 
upon  it  as  firmly,  as  if  he  had  served  me  with  fidelity  for  seven 
years. 

" Mon  seigneur!"  cried  the  master  of  the  hotel,  but  recol- 
lecting himself  as  he  made  the  exclamation,  he  instantly  changed 
the  tone  of  it.  "If  Monsieur,"  said  he,  "has  not  a  passport, 
(apparemment)  in  all  likelihood  he  has  friends  in  Paris  who  can 
procure  him  one."  "  Not  that  I  know  of,"  quoth  I,  with  an  air 
of  indifference.  "Then,  certes"  replied  he,  "you'll  be  sent  to 
the  Bastille  or  the  Chatelet,  au  moins"  "Poo!"  said  I,  "the 
King  of  France  is  a  good-natured  soul, —  he'll  hurt  nobody." 
"Cela  n'empeche  pas,"  said  he.  "You  will  certainly  be  sent  to 
the  Bastille  to-morrow  morning."  "But  I  Ve  taken  your  lodg- 
ings for  a  month,"  answered  I,  "and  I'll  not  quit  them  a  day 
before  the  time,  for  all  the  kings  of  France  in  the  world."  La 
Fleur  whispered  in  my  ear  that  nobody  could  oppose  the  king 
of  France. 

"Pardi ! "  said  my  host.  "  Ces  Messieurs  Anglois  sont  des  gens 
tres  extraordinaire*  I "  And  having  both  said  and  sworn  it,  he 
went  out. 

I  'could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  torture  La  Fleur's  with  a 
serious  look  upon  the  subject  of  my  embarrassment,  which  was 
the  reason  I  had  treated  it  so  cavalierly ;  and  to  show  him  how 
light  it  lay  upon  my  mind,  I  dropped  the  subject  entirely,  and, 
whilst  he  waited  upon  me  at  supper,  talked  to  him  with  more 
than  usual  gayety  about  Paris,  and  of  the  Opera  Comique.  .  .  . 

As  for  the  Bastille,  the  terror  is  in  the  word.  Make  the  most 
of  it  you  can,  said  I  to  myself,  the  Bastille  is  but  another  word 
for  a  tower,  and  a  tower  is  but  another  word  for  a  house  you 
can't  get  out  of.  Mercy  on  the  gouty!  for  they  are  in  it  twice  a 
year.  But  with  nine  livres  a  day,  and  pen  and  ink  and  paper  and 
patience,  albeit  a  man  can't  get  out,  he  may  do  very  well  within 
-  at  least  for  a  month  or  six  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which,  if  he 
is  a  harmless  fellow,  his  innocence  appears,  and  he  comes  out  a 
better  and  wiser  man  than  he  went  in. 

I  had  some  occasion  (I  forget  what)  to  step  into  the  court- 


496  LAURENCE  STERNE 

yard,  as  I  settled  this  account,  and  remember  I  walked  down 
stairs  in  no  small  triumph  with  the  conceit  of  my  reasoning. 
Beshrew  the  sombre  pencil!  said  Ivauntingly,  for  I  envy  not 
its  power,  which  paints  the  evils  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly 
a  coloring.  The  mind  sits  terrified  at  the  objects  she  has  mag- 
nified herself,  and  blackened;  reduce  them  to  their  proper  size 
and  hue,  she  overlooks  them.  'T  is  true,  said  I,  correcting  the 
proposition,  —  the  Bastille  is  not  an  evil  to  be  despised;  but 
strip  it  of  its  towers,  fill  up  the  fosse,  unbarricade  the  doors,  — 
call  it  simply  a  confinement,  and  suppose  't  is  some  tyrant  of  a 
distemper,  and  not  of  a  man,  which  holds  you  in  it,  —  the  evil 
vanishes,  and  you  bear  the  other  half  without  complaint. 

I  was  interrupted  in  the  hey-day  of  this  soliloquy,  with  a 
voice  which  I  took  to  be  of  a  child,  which  complained  "it  could 
not  get  out."  I  looked  up  and  down  the  passage,  and  seeing 
neither  man,  woman,  or  child,  I  went  out  without  further 
attention.  In  my  return  back  through  the  passage,  I  heard  the 
same  words  repeated  twice  over;  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  it  was  a 
starling  hung  in  a  little  cage.  "  I  can't  get  out,  I  can't  get  out!" 
said  the  starling. 

I  stood  looking  at  the  bird;  and  to  every  person  who  came 
through  the  passage  it  ran,  fluttering  to  the  side  towards  which 
they  approached  it,  with  the  same  lamentation  of  its  captivity. 
"I  can't  get  out!"  said  the  starling. 

"God  help  thee!"  said  I,  "but  I'll  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it 
will."  So  I  turned  about  the  cage  to  get  to  the  door;  it  was 
twisted  and  double  twisted  so  fast  with  wire,  there  was  no 
getting  it  open  without  pulling  the  cage  to  pieces;  —  I  took 
both  hands  to  it. 

The  bird  flew  to  the  place  where  I  was  attempting  his  deliver- 
ance, and,  thrusting  his  head  through  the  trellis,  pressed  his 
breast  against  it,  as  if  impatient.  "I  fear,  poor  creature,"  said 
I,  "I  cannot  set  thee  at  liberty."  "No,"  said  the  starling,  "I 
can't  get  out  —  I  can't  get  out !"  said  the  starling. 

I  vow  I  never  had  my  affections  more  tenderly  awakened;  or 
do  I  remember  an  incident  in  my  life,  where  the  dissipated 
spirits,  to  which  my  reason  had  been  a  bubble,  were  so  sud- 
denly called  home.  Mechanical  as  the  notes  were,  yet  so  true 
in  tune  to  nature  were  they  chanted,  that  in  one  moment  they 
overthrew  all  my  systematic  reasonings  upon  the  Bastille;  and 


A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  497 

I  heavily  walked  upstairs,  unsaying  every  word  I  had  said  in 
going  down  them. 

Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still,  Slavery!  said  I,  —  still 
thou  art  a  bitter  draught!  And  though  thousands  in  all  ages 
have  been  made  to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art  no  less  bitter  on  that 
account.  -  T  is  thou,  thrice  sweet  and  gracious  goddess,  — 
addressing  myself  to  Liberty  —  whom  all  in  public  or  in  private 
worship,  whose  taste  is  grateful,  and  ever  will  be  so,  till  Nature 
herself  shall  change!  No  tint  of  words  can  spot  thy  snowy 
mantle,  or  chemic  power  turn  thy  sceptre  into  iron.  With  thee 
to  smile  upon  him  as  he  eats  his  crust,  the  swain  is  happier 
than  his  monarch,  from  whose  court  thou  art  exiled.  Gracious 
Heaven !  cried  I,  kneeling  down  upon  the  last  step  but  one  in  my 
ascent,  —  grant  me  but  health,  thou  great  Bestower  of  it,  and 
give  me  but  this  fair  goddess  as  my  companion,  and  shower 
down  thy  mitres,  if  it  seems  good  unto  thy  divine  providence, 
upon  those  heads  which  are  aching  for  them. 

The  bird  in  his  cage  pursued  me  into  my  room.  I  sat  down 
close  to  my  table,  and,  leaning  my  head  upon  my  hand,  I  began 
to  figure  to  myself  the  miseries  of  confinement.  I  was  in  a  right 
frame  for  it,  and  so  I  gave  full  scope  to  my  imagination. 

I  was  going  to  begin  with  the  millions  of  my  fellow-creatures, 
born  to  no  inheritance  but  slavery;  but  finding,  however  affect- 
ing the  picture  was,  that  I  could  not  bring  it  near  me,  and  that 
the  multitude  of  sad  groups  in  it  did  but  distract  me,  I  took  a 
single  captive,  and,  having  first  shut  him  up  in  his  dungeon,  I 
then  looked  through  the  twilight  of  his  grated  door  to  take  his 
picture. 

I  beheld  his  body  half  wasted  away  with  long  expectation 
and  confinement,  and  felt  what  kind  of  sickness  of  the  heart  it 
was  which  arises  from  hope  deferred.  Upon  looking  nearer,  I 
saw  him  pale  and  feverish ;  in  thirty  years  the  western  breeze 
had  not  once  fanned  his  blood,  —  he  had  seen  no  sun,  no  moon, 
in  all  that  time,  nor  had  the  voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  breathed 
through  his  lattice;  —  his  children  — 

But  here  my  heart  began  to  bleed,  and  I  was  forced  to  go  on 
with  another  part  of  the  portrait. 

He  was  sitting  upon  the  ground,  upon  a  little  straw,  in  the 
furthest  corner  of  his  dungeon,  which  was  alternately  his  chair 
and  bed.  A  little  calendar  of  small  sticks  were  laid  at  the  head, 


498  LAURENCE  STERNE 

notched  all  over  with  the  dismal  days  and  nights  he  had  passed 
there;  he  had  one  of  these  little  sticks  in  his  hand,  and  with  a 
rusty  nail  he  was  etching  another  day  of  misery  to  add  to  the 
heap.  As  I  darkened  the  little  light  he  had,  he  lifted  up  a  hope- 
less eye  towards  the  door,  then  cast  it  down,  —  shook  his  head, 
and  went  on  with  his  work  of  affliction.  I  heard  his  chains  upon 
his  legs,  as  he  turned  his  body  to  lay  his  little  stick  upon  the 
bundle.  He  gave  a  deep  sigh,  —  I  saw  the  iron  enter  into  his 
soul.  I  burst  into  tears,  —  I  could  not  sustain  the  picture  of 
confinement  which  my  fancy  had  drawn.  I  started  up  from  my 
chair,  and  called  La  Fleur;  I  bid  him  bespeak  me  a  remise,  and 
have  it  ready  at  the  door  of  the  hotel  by  nine  in  the  morning. 

MOULINES 

I  never  felt  what  the  distress  of  plenty  was  in  any  one  shape 
till  now,  —  to  travel  it  through  the  Bourbonnois,  the  sweetest 
part  of  France,  in  the  hey-day  of  the  vintage,  when  Nature  is 
pouring  her  abundance  into  every  one's  lap,  and  every  eye  is 
lifted  up,  —  a  journey  through  each  step  of  which  Music  beats 
time  to  Labor,  and  all  her  children  are  rejoicing  as  they  carry 
in  their  clusters,  —  to  pass  through  this  with  my  affections 
flying  out  and  kindling  at  every  group  before  me  —  and  every 
one  of  them  was  pregnant  with  adventures.  Just  Heaven ! 
it  would  fill  up  twenty  volumes ;  and  alas !  I  have  but  a  few  small 
pages  left  of  this  to  crowd  it  into,  —  and  half  of  these  must  be 
taken  up  with  the  poor  Maria  my  friend  Mr.  Shandy  met  with 
near  Moulines. 

The  story  he  had  told  of  that  disordered  maid  affected  me  not 
a  little  in  the  reading;  but  when  I  got  within  the  neighborhood 
where  she  lived,  it  returned  so  strong  into  my  mind,  that  I 
could  not  resist  an  impulse  which  prompted  me  to  go  half  a 
league  out  of  the  road,  to  the  village  where  her  parents  dwelt, 
to  inquire  after  her.  'T  is  going,  I  own,  like  the  Knight  of  the 
Woeful  Countenance,  in  quest  of  melancholy  adventures;  but 
I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  I  am  never  so  perfectly  conscious  of  the 
existence  of  a  soul  within  me,  as  when  I  am  entangled  in  them. 

The  old  mother  came  to  the  door.  Her  looks  told  me  the 
story  before  she  opened  her  mouth;  she  had  lost  her  husband. 
He  had  died,  she  said,  of  anguish,  for  the  loss  of  Maria's  senses, 
about  a  month  before.  She  had  feared,  at  first,  she  added, 


A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  499 

that  it  would  have  plundered  her  poor  girl  of  what  little  under- 
standing was  left;  but  on  the  contrary  it  had  brought  her  more 
to  herself.  Still  she  could  not  rest;  —  her  poor  daughter,  she 
said,  crying,  was  wandering  somewhere  about  the  road.  - 

Why  does  my  pulse  b<jat  languid  as  I  write  this?  And  what 
made  La  Fleur,  whose  heart  seemed  only  to  be  tuned  to  joy, 
to  pass  the  back  of  his  hand  twice  across  his  eyes,  as  the  woman 
stood  and  told  it?  I  beckoned  to  the  postilion  to  turn  back 
into  the  road. 

When  we  had  got  within  half  a  league  of  Moulines,  at  a  little 
opening  in  the  road  leading  to  a  thicket,  I  discovered  poor 
Maria  sitting  under  a  poplar;  —  she  was  sitting  with  her  elbow 
in  her  lap,  and  her  head  leaning  on  one  side  within  her  hand. 
A  small  brook  ran  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

I  bid  the  postilion  go  on  with  the  chaise  to  Moulines,  and 
La  Fleur  to  bespeak  my  supper;  and  that  I  would  walk  after 
him. 

She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  much  as  my  friend  described 
her,  except  that  her  hair  hung  loose,  which  before  was  twisted 
within  a  silk  net.  She  had,  superadded  likewise  to  her  jacket, 
a  pale  green  ribbon,  which  fell  across  her  shoulder  to  the  waist, 
at  the  end  of  which  hung  her  pipe.  Her  goat  had  been  as  faith- 
less as  her  lover,  and  she  had  got  a  little  dog  in  lieu  of  him. 
which  she  had  kept  tied  by  a  string  to  her  girdle;  as  I  looked  at 
her  dog,  she  drew  him  towards  her  with  the  string.  "Thou 
shalt  not  leave  me,  Sylvio,"  said  she.  I  looked  in  Maria's  eyes, 
and  saw  she  was  thinking  more  of  her  father  than  of  her  lover 
or  her  little  goat;  for  as  she  uttered  them  the  tears  trickled 
down  her  cheeks. 

I  sat  down  close  by  her,  and  Maria  let  me  wipe  them  away 
as  they  fell,  with  my  handkerchief.  I  then  steeped  it  in  my  own, 
—  and  then  in  hers  —  and  then  in  mine  —  and  then  I  wiped 
hers  again,  —  and  as  I  did  it,  I  felt  such  undescribable  emotions 
within  me,  as  I  am  sure  could  not  be  accounted  for  from  any 
combinations  of  matter  and  motion. 

I  am  positive  I  have  a  soul;  nor  can  all  the  books  with  which 
materialists  have  pestered  the  world  ever  convince  me  to  the 
contrary. 

When  Maria  had  come  a  little  to  herself,  I  asked  her  if  she 
remembered  a  pale  thin  person  of  a  man,  who  had  sat  down 


500  LAURENCE   STERNE 

betwixt  her  and  her  goat  about  two  years  before?  She  said  she 
was  unsettled  much  at  that  time,  but  remembered  it  upon  two 
accounts,  —  that,  ill  as  she  was,  she  saw  the  person  pitied  her; 
and  next,  that  her  goat  had  stolen  his  handkerchief,  and  she 
had  beat  him  for  the  theft;  —  she  had  washed  it,  she  said,  in 
the  brook,  and  kept  it  ever  since  in  her  pocket,  to  restore  it  to 
him  in  case  she  should  ever  see  him  again,  —  which,  she  added, 
he  had  half  promised  her.  As  she  told  me  this,  she  took  the 
handkerchief  out  of  her  pocket  to  let  me  see  it;  she  had  folded  it 
up  neatly  in  a  couple  of  vine-leaves,  tied  round  with  a  tendril. 
On  opening  it,  I  saw  an  S.  marked  in  one  of  the  corners. 

She  had  since  that,  she  told  me,  strayed  as  far  as  Rome,  and 
walked  round  St.  Peter's  once,  and  returned  back;  that  she 
found  her  way  alone  across  the  Apennines,  —  had  traveled 
over  all  Lombardy  without  money,  and  through  the  flinty 
roads  of  Savoy  without  shoes.  How  she  had  borne  it,  and  how 
she  had  got  supported,  she  could  not  tell;  "but  God  tempers 
the  wind,"  said  Maria,  "to  the  shorn  lamb." 

"  Shorn  indeed!  and  to  the  quick,  "said  I.  "  And  wast  thou  in 
my  own  land,  where  I  have  a  cottage,  I  would  take  thee  to  it 
and  shelter  thee.  Thou  shouldst  eat  of  my  own  bread ,  and  drink 
of  my  own  cup;  I  would  be  kind  to  thy  Sylvio;  in  all  thy  weak- 
nesses and  wanderings  I  would  seek  after  thee  and  bring  thee 
back.  When  the  sun  went  down  I  would  say  my  prayers,  and 
when  I  had  done  thou  shouldst  play  thy  evening  song  upon  thy 
pipe,  nor  would  the  incense  of  my  sacrifice  be  worse  accepted 
for  entering  heaven  along  with  that  of  a  broken  heart." 

Nature  melted  within  me,  as  I  uttered  this;  and  Maria,  ob- 
serving, as  I  took  out  my  handkerchief,  that  it  was  steeped  too 
much  already  to  be  of  use,  would  needs  go  wash  it  in  the  stream. 
"And  where  will  you  dry  it,  Maria?  "  said  I.  "  I  '11  dry  it  in  my 
bosom,"  said  she;  "'t  will  do  me  good."  "And  is  your  heart 
still  so  warm,  Maria?"  said  I. 

I  touched  upon  the  string  on  which  hung  all  her  sorrows ;  — 
she  looked  with  wistful  disorder  for  some  time  in  my  face,  and 
then,  without  saying  anything,  took  her  pipe  and  played  her 
service  to  the  Virgin.  The  string  I  had  touched  ceased  to  vi- 
brate; in  a  moment  or  two  Maria  returned  to  herself,  let  her 
pipe  fall,  and  rose  up. 

"And  where  are  you  going,  Maria?"  said  I.    She  said,  to 


A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  501 

Moulines.  "Let  us  go," said  I,  "together."  Maria  put  her  arm 
within  mine,  and  lengthening  the  string,  to  let  the  dog  follow  — 
in  that  order  we  entered  Moulines. 

Though  I  hate  salutations  and  greetings  in  the  market-place, 
yet  when  we  got  into  the  middle  of  this,  I  stopped  to  take  my 
last  look  and  last  farewell  of  Maria. 

Maria,  though  not  tall,  was  nevertheless  of  the  first  order  of 
fine  forms;  affliction  had  touched  her  looks  with  something  that 
was  scarce  earthly,  —  still  she  was  feminine;  and  so  much  was 
there  about  her  of  all  that  the  heart  wishes,  or  the  eye  looks  for 
in  woman,  that,  could  the  traces  be  ever  worn  out  of  her  brain, 
and  those  of  Eliza  out  of  mine,  she  should  not  only  eat  of  my 
bread  and  drink  of  my  own  cup,  but  Maria  should  lie  in  my 
bosom,  and  be  unto  me  as  a  daughter. 

Adieu,  poor  luckless  maiden!  Imbibe  the  oil  and  wine  which 
the  compassion  of  a  stranger,  as  he  journeyeth  on  his  way,  now 
pours  into  thy  wounds;  the  Being  who  has  twice  bruised  thee 
can  only  bind  them  up  forever. 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT 

THE   EXPEDITION   OF   HUMPHREY  CLINKER 

1771 

[The  epistolary  form  of  Humphrey  Clinker  gave  Smollett  the  opportun- 
ity to  make  it  a  medium  of  no  little  description  and  comment  on  contem- 
porary life  and  interests,  as  well  as  a  novel.  It  is  only  this  incidental  aspect 
which  is  represented  by  the  following  extracts,  which  present  contrasting 
views  of  eighteenth  century  London,  from  the  standpoints  of  different 
members  of  the  same  party  of  travelers.  The  cant  piety  of  the  style  of  the 
serving-woman  is  a  reflection  of  the  Wesleyan  movement,  at  this  period 
sufficiently  conspicuous  to  become  the  object  of  satire.] 

Squire  Bramble  to  Dr.  Lewis 

LONDON,  May  29. 

DEAR  DOCTOR:  London  is  literally  new  to  me;  new  in  its 
streets,  houses,  and  even  in  its  situation.  As  the  Irishman  said, 
" London  is  now  gone  out  of  town."  What  I  left  open  fields, 
producing  hay  and  corn,  I  now  find  covered  with  streets  and 
squares  and  palaces  and  churches.  I  am  credibly  informed  that, 
in  the  space  of  seven  years,  eleven  thousand  new  houses  have 
been  built  in  one  quarter  of  Westminster,  exclusive  of  what  is 
daily  added  to  other  parts  of  this  unwieldy  metropolis.  Pimlico 
and  Knightsbridge  are  now  almost  joined  to  Chelsea  and  Ken- 
sington; and  if  this  infatuation  continues  for  half  a  century, 
I  suppose  the  whole  county  of  Middlesex  will  be  covered  with 
brick. 

It  must  be  allowed,  indeed,  for  the  credit  of  the  present  age, 
that  London  and  Westminster  are  much  better  paved  and 
lighted  than  they  were  formerly.  The  new  streets  are  spacious, 
regular,  and  airy,  and  the  houses  generally  convenient.  The 
bridge  at  Blackfriars  is  a  noble  monument  of  taste  and  public 
spirit,  —  I  wonder  how  they  stumbled  on  a  work  of  such  magnifi- 
cence and  utility.  But,  notwithstanding  these  improvements, 
the  capital  is  become  an  overgrown  monster,  which,  like  a 
dropsical  head,  will  in  time  leave  the  body  and  extremities 
without  nourishment  and  support.  The  absurdity  will  appear 


HUMPHREY  CLINKER  503 

in  its  full  force  when  we  consider  that  one  sixth  part  of  the  na- 
tives of  this  whole  extensive  kingdom  is  crowded  within  the  bills 
of  mortality.1  What  wonder  that  our  villages  are  depopulated, 
and  our  farms  in  want  of  day-laborers?  The  abolition  of  small 
farms  is  but  one  cause  of  the  decrease  of  population.  Indeed, 
the  incredible  increase  of  horses  and  black  cattle,  to  answer  the 
purposes  of  luxury,  requires  a  prodigious  quantity  of  hay  and 
grass,  which  are  raised  and  managed  without  much  labor;  but 
a  number  of  hands  will  always  be  wanted  for  the  different 
branches  of  agriculture,  whether  the  farms  be  large  or  small. 
The  tide  of  luxury  has  swept  all  the  inhabitants  from  the  open 
country.  The  poorest  squire,  as  well  as  the  richest  peer,  must 
have  his  house  in  town,  and  make  a  figure  with  an  extraordinary 
number  of  domestics.  The  ploughboys,  cowherds,  and  lower 
hinds  are  debauched  and  seduced  by  the  appearance  and  dis- 
course of  those  coxcombs  in  livery,  when  they  make  their 
summer  excursions.  They  desert  their  dirt  and  drudgery,  and 
swarm  up  to  London  in  hopes  of  getting  into  service,  where 
they  can  live  luxuriously  and  wear  fine  clothes,  without  being 
obliged  to  work;  for  idleness  is  natural  to  man.  Great  numbers 
of  these,  being  disappointed  in  their  expectation,  become 
thieves  and  sharpers;  and  London,  being  an  immense  wilder- 
ness, in  which  there  is  neither  watch  nor  ward  of  any  significa- 
tion, nor  any  order  of  police,  affords  them  lurking-places  as 
well  as  prey. 

There  are  many  causes  that  contribute  to  the  daily  increase 
of  this  enormous  mass,  but  they  may  be  all  resolved  into  the 
grand  source  of  luxury  and  corruption.  About  five-and-twenty 
years  ago,  very  few  even  of  the  most  opulent  citizens  of  Lon- 
don kept  any  equipage,  or  even  any  servants  in  livery.  Their 
tables  produced  nothing  but  plain  boiled  and  roasted,  with  a 
bottle  of  port  and  a  tankard  of  beer.  At  present,  every  trader 
in  any  degree  of  credit,  every  broker  and  attorney,  maintains 
a  couple  of  footmen,  a  coachman,  and  postilion.  He  has  his 
town  house  and  his  country  house,  his  coach  and  his  post- 
chaise.  His  wife  and  daughters  appear  in  the  richest  stuffs,  be- 
spangled with  diamonds.  They  frequent  the  court,  the  opera, 
the  theatre,  and  the  masquerade.  They  hold  assemblies  at 

i  A  term  applied  to  a  district  in  London,  consisting  of  109  parishes,  to  which  for  a  long 
time  the  weekly  "bills"  (reports)  of  mortality  were  confined. 


504  TOBIAS   GEORGE  SMOLLETT 

their  own  houses;  they  make  sumptuous  entertainments,  and 
treat  with  the  richest  wines  of  Bordeaux,  Burgundy,  and 
Champagne.  The  substantial  tradesman,  who  was  wont  to 
pass  his  evenings  at  the  ale-house  for  fourpence-halfpenny,  now 
spends  three  shillings  at  the  tavern,  while  his  wife  keeps  card- 
tables  at  home;  she  must  also  have  fine  clothes, her  chaise,  or 
pad,  with  country  lodgings,  and  go  three  times  a  week  to 
public  diversions.  Every  clerk,  apprentice,  and  even  waiter  of 
a  tavern  or  coffee-house,  maintains  a  gelding  by  himself,  or 
in  partnership,  and  assumes  the  air  and  apparel  of  a  petit- 
maUre.  The  gayest  places  of  public  entertainment  are  filled 
with  fashionable  figures,  which,  upon  inquiry,  will  be  found 
to  be  journeymen-tailors,  serving-men,  and  abigails,  disguised 
like  their  betters.  In  short,  there  is  no  distinction  or  subordina- 
tion left.  The  different  departments  of  life  are  jumbled  together. 
The  hod-carrier,  the  low  mechanic,  the  tapster,  the  publican, 
the  shopkeeper,  the  pettifogger,  the  citizen,  and  courtier,  all 
tread  upon  the  kibes  of  one  another.  Actuated  by  the  demons 
of  profligacy  and  licentiousness,  they  are  seen  everywhere, 
rambling,  riding,  rolling,  rushing,  jostling,  mixing,  bouncing, 
cracking,  and  crashing  in  one  vile  ferment  of  stupidity  and 
corruption.  All  is  tumult  and  hurry;  one  would  imagine  they 
were  impelled  by  some  disorder  of  the  brain,  that  will  not  suffer 
them  to  be  at  rest.  .  .  . 

The  diversions  of  the  times  are  not  ill  suited  to  the  genius  of 
this  incongruous  monster  called  the  public.  Give  it  noise,  con- 
fusion, glare,  glitter;  it  has  no  idea  of  elegance  and  propriety. 
What  are  the  amusements  at  Ranelagh?  One  half  of  the  com- 
pany are  following  one  another's  tails,  in  an  eternal  circle,  like 
so  many  blind  asses  in  an  olive-mill,  where  they  can  neither  dis- 
course, distinguish,  nor  be  distinguished;  while  the  other  half 
are  drinking  hot  water,  under  the  denomination  of  tea,  till  nine 
or  ten  o'clock  at  night,  to  keep  them  awake  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  As  for  the  orchestra,  the  vocal  music  especially,  it  is 
well  for  the  performers  that  they  cannot  be  heard  distinctly. 
Vauxhall  is  a  composition  of  baubles,  overcharged  with  paltry 
ornaments,  ill  conceived  and  poorly  executed,  without  any 
unity  of  design  or  propriety  of  disposition.  It  is  an  unnatural 
assemblage  of  objects,  fantastically  illuminated  in  broken 
masses,  seemingly  contrived  to  dazzle  the  eyes  and  divert  the 


HUMPHREY  CLINKER  505 

imagination  of  the  vulgar.  Here  a  wooden  lion  —  there  a  stone 
statue;  in  one  place  a  range  of  things  like  coffee-house  boxes, 
covered  a- top;  in  another,  a  parcel  of  ale-house  benches;  in  a 
third,  a  puppet-show  representation  of  a  tin  cascade ;  in  a  fourth, 
a  gloomy  cave  of  a  circular  form,  like  a  sepulchral  vault,  half 
lighted;  in  a  fifth,  a  scanty  slip  of  grass-plot  that  would  not 
afford  pasture  sufficient  for  an  ass's  colt.  The  walks,  which 
nature  seems  to  have  intended  for  solitude,  shade,  and  silence, 
are  filled  with  crowds  of  noisy  people,  sucking  up  the  nocturnal 
rheums  of  an  aguish  climate;  and  through  these  gay  scenes  a 
few  lamps  glimmer  like  so  many  farthing  candles.  .  .  . 

JuneS. 

...  I  am  pent  up  in  frowsy  lodgings,  where  there  is  not  room 
enough  to  swing  a  cat,  and  I  breathe  the  steams  of  endless 
putrefaction;  and  these  would  undoubtedly  produce  a  pesti- 
lence, if  they  were  not  qualified  by  the  gross  acid  of  seacoal, 
which  is  in  itself  a  pernicious  nuisance  to  lungs  of  any  delicacy 
of  texture;  but  even  this  boasted  corrector  cannot  prevent 
those  languid,  sallow  looks,  that  distinguish  the  inhabitants  of 
London  from  those  ruddy  swains  that  lead  a  country  life.  I  go 
to  bed  after  midnight,  jaded  and  restless  from  the  dissipations 
of  the  day.  I  start  every  hour  from  my  sleep,  at  the  horrid 
noise  of  the  watchmen  bawling  the  hour  through  every  street, 
and  thundering  at  every  door;  —  a  set  of  useless  fellows,  who 
serve  no  other  purpose  but  that  of  disturbing  the  repose  of  the 
inhabitants.  And  by  five  o'clock  I  start  out  of  bed  in  conse- 
quence of  the  still  more  dreadful  alarm  made  by  the  country 
carts  and  noisy  rustics  bellowing  green  peas  under  my  window. 
If  I  would  drink  water,  I  must  quaff  the  mawkish  contents 
of  an  open  aqueduct,  exposed  to  all  manner  of  defilement,  or 
swallow  that  which  comes  from  the  river  Thames,  impregnated 
with  all  the  filth  of  London  and  Westminster;  .  .  .  composed 
of  all  the  drugs,  materials,  and  poisons  used  in  mechanics 
and  manufactures,  enriched  with  the  putrefying  carcases  of 
beasts  and  men,  and  mixed  with  the  scourings  of  all  the  wash- 
tubs,  kennels,  and  common  sewers  within  the  bills  of  mor- 
tality. .  .  . 

It  must  be  owned  that  Covent  Garden  affords  some  good 
fruit;  which,  however,  is  always  engrossed  by  a  few  individuals 


5o6  TOBIAS   GEORGE  SMOLLETT 

of  overgrown  fortune,  at  an  exorbitant  price,  so  that  little  else 
than  the  refuse  of  the  market  falls  to  the  share  of  the  commun- 
ity; and  that  is  distributed  by  such  filthy  hands  as  I  cannot 
look  at  without  loathing.  .  .  .  I  need  not  dwell  upon  the  pallid, 
contaminated  mash  which  they  call  strawberries,  soiled  and 
tossed  by  greasy  paws  through  twenty  baskets  crusted  with 
dirt,  and  then  presented  with  the  worst  milk,  thickened  with 
the  worst  flour  into  a  bad  likeness  of  cream.  But  the  milk  itself 
should  not  pass  unanalyzed,  —  the  produce  of  faded  cabbage- 
leaves  and  sour  draff,  lowered  with  hot  water,  frothed  with 
bruised  snails,  carried  through  the  streets  in  open  pails,  exposed 
to  foul  rinsings  discharged  from  doors  and  windows,  overflow- 
ings from  mud-carts,  spatterings  from  coach-wheels,  dirt  and 
trash  chucked  into  it  by  roguish  boys.  .  .  . 

A  companionable  man  will  undoubtedly  put  up  with  many 
inconveniences  for  the  sake  of  enjoying  agreeable  society.  A 
facetious  friend  of  mine  used  to  say  the  wine  could  not  be  bad 
where  the  company  was  agreeable,  —  a  maxim  which,  however, 
ought  to  be  taken  cum  grano  salis.  But  what  is  the  society  of 
London,  that  I  should  be  tempted  for  its  sake  to  mortify  my 
senses,  and  compound  with  such  uncleanness  as  my  soul  ab- 
hors? All  the  people  I  see  are  too  much  engrossed  by  schemes 
of  interest  or  ambition,  to  have  any  room  left  for  sentiment 
or  friendship.  Even  in  some  of  my  old  acquaintance,  those 
schemes  and  pursuits  have  obliterated  all  traces  of  our  former 
connection.  Conversation  is  reduced  to  party  disputes  and 
illiberal  altercation;  social  commerce  to  formal  visits  and 
card-playing.  If  you  pick  up  a  diverting  original  by  accident, 
it  may  be  dangerous  to  amuse  yourself  with  his  oddities;  he  is 
generally  a  Tartar  at  bottom,  —  a  sharper,  a  spy,  or  a  lunatic. 
Every  person  you  deal  with  endeavors  to  over-reach  you  in  the 
way  of  business.  You  are  preyed  upon  by  idle  mendicants,  who 
beg  in  the  phrase  of  borrowing  and  live  on  the  spoils  of  the 
stranger;  your  tradesmen  are  without  conscience,  your  friends 
without  affection,  and  your  dependents  without  fidelity.  .  .  . 

Lydia  Melford  to  Letitia  Willis 

LONDON,  May  31. 

MY  DEAR  LETTY:  .  .  .  About  five  weeks  ago  we  arrived  in 
London,  after  an  easy  journey  from  Bath ;  during  which,  how- 


HUMPHREY  CLINKER  507 

ever,  we  were  overturned,  and  met  with  some  other  little  inci- 
dents which  had  like  to  have  occasioned  a  misunderstanding 
betwixt  my  uncle  and  aunt.  But  now,  thank  God,  they  are 
happily  reconciled;  we  live  in  harmony  together,  and  every  day 
make  parties  to  see  the  wonders  of  this  vast  metropolis,  — 
which,  however,  I  cannot  pretend  to  describe,  for  I  have  not 
yet  seen  one  hundredth  part  of  its  curiosities,  and  I  am  quite  in 
a  maze  of  admiration.  The  cities  of  London  and  Westminster 
are  spread  out  to  an  incredible  extent.  The  streets,  squares, 
rows,  lanes,  and  alleys  are  innumerable.  Palaces,  public  build- 
ings, and  churches  rise  in  every  quarter,  and  amongst  these 
last  St.  Paul's  appears  with  the  most  astonishing  preeminence. 
They  say  it  is  not  so  large  as  St.  Peter's  at  Rome,  but  for  my 
own  part  I  can  have  no  idea  of  any  earthly  temple  more  grand 
and  magnificent. 

But  even  these  superb  objects  are  not  so  striking  as  the 
crowds  of  people  that  swarm  in  the  streets.  I  at  first  imagined 
that  some  great  assembly  was  just  dismissed,  and  wanted  to 
stand  aside  till  the  multitude  should  pass;  but  this  human  tide 
continues  to  flow,  without  interruption  or  abatement,  from 
morn  till  night.  Then  there  is  such  an  infinity  of  gay  equipages, 
coaches,  chariots,  chaises,  and  other  carriages,  continually 
rolling  and  shifting  before  your  eyes,  that  one's  head  grows 
giddy  looking  at  them,  and  the  imagination  is  quite  confounded 
with  splendor  and  variety.  Nor  is  the  prospect  by  water  less 
grand  and  astonishing  than  that  by  land:  you  see  three  stupen- 
dous bridges,  joining  the  opposite  banks  of  a  broad,  deep,  and 
rapid  river,  so  vast,  so  stately,  so  elegant,  that  they  seem  to  be 
the  work  of  the  giants;  betwixt  them  the  whole  surface  of  the 
Thames  is  covered  with  small  vessels,  —  barges,  boats,  and 
wherries,  passing  to  and  fro;  and  below  the  three  bridges  such  a 
prodigious  forest  of  masts,  for  miles  together,  that  you  would 
think  all  the  ships  in  the  universe  were  here  assembled.  All 
that  you  read  of  wealth  and  grandeur  in  the  Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments  and  the  Persian  Talcs,  concerning  Bagdad, 
Diarbekir,  Damascus,  Ispahan,  and  Samarcand,  is  here  real- 
ized. Ranelagh  looks  like  the  enchanted  palace  of  a  genie, 
adorned  with  the  most  exquisite  performances  of  painting, 
carving,  and  gilding,  enlightened  with  a  thousand  golden  lamps 
that  emulate  the  noonday  sun;  crowded  with  the  great,  the 


508  TOBIAS   GEORGE  SMOLLETT 

rich,  the  gay,  the  happy,  and  the  fair,  glittering  with  cloth  of 
gold  and  silver,  lace,  embroidery,  and  precious  stones.  While 
these  exulting  sons  and  daughters  of  felicity  tread  this  round 
of  pleasure,  or  regale  in  different  parties  and  separate  lodges, 
with  fine  imperial  tea  and  other  delicious  refreshments,  their 
ears  are  entertained  with  the  most  ravishing  delights  of  music, 
both  instrumental  and  vocal.  .  .  . 

At  nine  o'clock  in  a  charming  moonlight  evening,  we  em- 
barked at  Ranelagh  for  Vauxhall,  in  a  wherry  so  light  and  slen- 
der that  we  looked  like  so  many  fairies  sailing  in  a  nutshell. 
.  .  .  The  pleasure  of  this  little  excursion  was,  however,  damped 
by  my  being  sadly  frighted  at  our  landing,  where  there  was  a 
terrible  confusion  of  wherries,  and  a  crowd  of  people  bawling 
and  swearing  and  quarreling;  nay,  a  parcel  of  ugly-looking  fel- 
lows came  running  into  the  water,  and  laid  hold  on  our  boat  with 
great  violence,  to  pull  it  ashore,  nor  would  they  quit  their  hold 
till  my  brother  struck  one  of  them  over  the  head  with  his  cane. 
But  this  flutter  was  fully  recompensed  by  the  pleasures  of  Vaux- 
hall, which  I  no  sooner  entered,  than  I  was  dazzled  and  con- 
founded with  the  variety  of  beauties  that  rushed  all  at  once  on 
my  eye.  Imagine  to  yourself,  my  dear  Letty,  a  spacious  gar- 
den, part  laid  out  in  delightful  walks,  bounded  with  high 
hedges  and  trees,  and  paved  with  gravel;  part  exhibiting  a  won- 
derful assemblage  of  the  most  picturesque  and  striking  objects, 
—  pavilions,  lodges,  groves,  grottoes,  lawns,  temples,  and  cas- 
cades, porticoes,  colonnades,  and  rotundas,  adorned  with  pillars, 
statues,  and  paintings;  the  whole  illuminated  with  an  infinite 
number  of  lamps,  disposed  in  different  figures  of  suns,  stars, 
and  constellations,  —  the  place  crowded  with  the  gayest 
company,  ranging  through  those  blissful  shades  or  supping  in 
different  lodges  on  cold  collations,  enlivened  with  mirth,  free- 
dom, and  good  humor,  and  animated  by  an  excellent  band  of 
music.  .  .  . 

Winifred  Jenkins  to  Mary  Jones 

LONDON,  June  3. 

.  .  .  O  Molly!  what  shall  I  say  of  London?  All  the  towns 
that  ever  I  beheld  in  my  born  days  are  no  more  than  Welsh 
barrows  and  crumlecks  to  this  wonderful  sitty!  Even  Bath 
itself  is  but  a  fillitch;  in  the  naam  of  God  —  one  would  think 


HUMPHREY  CLINKER  509 

there's  no  end  of  the  streets,  but  the  land's  end.  Then  there's 
such  a  power  of  people,  going  hurry  skurry!  Such  a  racket  of 
coxes!  Such  a  noise  and  hallibaloo!  So  many  strange  sights  to 
be  seen!  0  gracious!  my  poor  Welsh  brain  has  been  spinning 
like  a  top  ever  since  I  came  hither!  And  I  have  seen  the  park, 
and  the  paleass  of  Saint  Gimses,  and  the  king's  and  the  queen's 
magisterian  pursing,  and  the  sweet  young  princes,  and  the 
hillyfents,  and  pye-bald  ass,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  royal  fam- 
ily. 

Last  week  I  went  with  mistress  to  the  Tower,  to  see  the 
crowns  and  wild  beasts;  and  there  was  a  monstracious  lion, 
with  teeth  half  a  quarter  long!  ...  I  was  afterwards  of  a 
party  at  Sadler's  Wells,  where  I  saw  such  tumbling  and  dancing 
upon  ropes  and  wires,  that  I  was  frightened,  and  ready  to  go  into 
a  fit.  I  tho't  it  was  all  inchantment,  and  believing  myself  be- 
witched, began  for  to  cry.  You  knows  as  how  the  witches  in 
Wales  fly  on  broomsticks;  but  here  was  flying  without  any 
broomstick,  or  thing  in  the  varsal  world,  and  firing  of  pistols  in 
the  air,  and  blowing  of  trumpets,  and  swinging,  and  rolling  of 
wheelbarrows  on  a  wire  (God  bliss  us!)  no  thicker  than  a  sew- 
ing-thread;  that,  to  be  sure,  they  must  deal  with  the  devil.  A 
fine  gentleman,  with  a  pig's  tail  and  a  golden  sord  by  his  side, 
came  to  comfit  me,  and  offered  for  to  treat  me  to  a  pint  of  wind; 
but  I  would  not  stay;  and  so,  in  going  through  the  dark  pas- 
sage, he  began  to  show  his  cloven  futt,  and  went  for  to  be  rude. 
My  fellow-sarvant  Umphry  Klinker  bid  him  be  sivil,  and  he 
gave  the  young  man  a  douse  in  the  chops;  but,  i'fackins,  Mr. 
Klinker  was  n't  long  in  his  debt;  with  a  good  oaken  sapling  he 
dusted  his  doublet,  for  all  his  golden  cheese-toaster,  and  fipping 
me  under  his  arm,  carried  me  huom,  I  nose  not  how,  being  I  was 
in  such  a  flustration.  But,  thank  God!  I'm  nowvaned  from 
all  such  vanities;  for  what  are  those  rarities  and  vagaries  to  the 
glories  that  shall  be  revealed  hereafter!  O  Molly!  let  not  your 
poor  heart  be  puffed  up  with  vanity. 

I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  have  had  my  hair  cut 
and  pippered,  and  singed,  and  bolstered,  and  buckled  in  the 
newest  fashion,  by  a  French  freezer  —  "  Parley  vow  Francey 
-Vee  madmansell!"  I  now  carries  my  head  higher  than  ar- 
row private  gentlewoman  of  Vales.  Last  night,  coming  huom 
from  the  meeting,  I  was  taken  by  lamplight  for  an  imminent 


5io  TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT 

poulterer's  daughter,  a  great  beauty, — but,  as  I  was  saying, 
this  is  all  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  The  pleasures  of  Lon- 
don are  no  better  than  sower  whey  and  stale  cyder,  when  com- 
pared to  the  joys  of  the  New  Gerusalem. 

Dear  Mary  Jones!  An  please  God,  when  I  return  I'll  bring 
you  a  new  cap,  with  a  turkey-shell  comb,  and  a  pyehouse  ser- 
mon, that  was  preached  in  the  Tabernacle.  And  I  pray  of  all 
love,  you  will  mind  your  vriting  and  your  spilling;  for,  craving 
your  pardon,  Molly,  it  made  me  suet  to  disseyffer  your  last 
scrabble,  which  was  delivered  by  the  hind  at  Bath.  O  voman! 
voman!  if  thou  hadst  but  the  least  consumption  of  what  plea- 
sure we  scullers  have,  when  we  can  cunster  the  crabbidst  buck 
off  hand,  and  spell  the  ethnitch  vords  without  lucking  at  the 
primmer!  .  .  . 


FRANCES    BURNEY    (MADAME    D'ARBLAY) 
DIARY  AND  LETTERS 

[Madame  d'Arblay's  Diary  and  Letters  were  published  in  1842,  two 
years  after  her  death,  by  her  niece  Charlotte  Barrett.  Of  the  extracts  here 
reproduced,  the  first  dates  from  the  time  when  the  writer  had  won  sudden 
fame  through  her  first  novel,  Evelina  (1778) ;  the  third  and  fourth  are  from 
the  period  of  her  service  as  "second  Keeper  of  the  Robes"  to  the  Queen 
(1786-91).] 

[DR.  JOHNSON] 

August  3,  1778. 

.  .  .  WHEN  we  were  summoned  to  dinner,  Mrs.  Thrale  made 
my  father  and  me  sit  on  each  side  of  her.  I  said  that  I  hoped  I 
did  not  take  Dr.  Johnson's  place,  —  for  he  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared. 

"No,'.'  answered  Mrs.  Thrale,  "he  will  sit  by  you,  which  I  am 
sure  will  give  him  great  pleasure." 

Soon  after  we  were  seated,  this  great  man  entered.  I  have  so 
true  a  veneration  for  him  that  the  very  sight  of  him  inspires  me 
with  delight  and  reverence,  notwithstanding  the  cruel  infirm- 
ities to  which  he  is  subject;  for  he  has  almost  perpetual  con- 
vulsive movements,  either  of  his  hands,  lips,  feet,  or  knees, 
and  sometimes  of  all  together. 

Mrs.  Thrale  introduced  me  to  him,  and  he  took  his  place. 
We  had  a  noble  dinner,  and  a  most  elegant  dessert.  Dr.  John- 
son, in  the  middle  of  dinner,  asked  Mrs.  Thrale  what  was  in 
some  little  pies  that  were  near  him. 

"Mutton,"  answered  she,  "so  I  don't  ask  you  to  eat  any, 
because  I  know  you  despise  it." 

"No,  madam,  no,"  cried  he,  "I  despise  nothing  that  is  good 
of  its  sort;  but  I  am  now  too  proud  to  eat  it.  Sitting  by  Miss 
Burney  makes  me  very  proud  to-day!" 

"Miss  Burney,"  said  Mrs.  Thrale,  laughing,  "you  must  take 
great  care  of  your  heart  if  Dr.  Johnson  attacks  it;  for  I  assure 
you  he  is  not  often  successless." 

"What's  that  you  say,  madam?  "  cried  he.  "Are  you  making 
mischief  between  the  young  lady  and  me  already? ' 

A  little  while  after  he  drank  Mrs.  Thrale's  health  and  mine, 


5i2  MADAME  D'ARBLAY 

and  then  added:  "Tis  a  terrible  thing  that  we  cannot  wish 
young  ladies  well  without  wishing  them  to  become  old  women ! " 

"But  some  people,"  said  Mr.  Seward,  "are  old  and  young  at 
the  same  time,  for  they  wear  so  well  that  they  never  look  old." 

"No,  sir,  no,"  cried  the  doctor,  laughing;  "that  never  yet 
was;  you  might  as  well  say  they  are  at  the  same  time  tall  and 
short.  I  remember  an  epitaph  to  that  purpose,  which  is  in  — 
(I  have  quite  forgot  what,  and  also  the  name  it  was  made  upon, 
but  the  rest  I  recollect  exactly :  — 


lies  buried  here; 


So  early  wise,  so  lasting  fair, 

That  none,  unless  her  years  you  told, 

Thought  her  a  child,  or  thought  her  old.") 

Mrs.  Thrale  then  repeated  some  lines  in  French,  and  Dr. 
Johnson  some  more  in  Latin.  An  epilogue  of  Mr.  Garrick's  to 
Bonduca  was  then  mentioned,  and  Dr.  Johnson  said  it  was  a 
miserable  performance,  and  everybody  agreed  it  was  the  worst 
he  had  ever  made. 

"And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Seward,  "it  has  been  very  much  ad- 
mired; but  it  is  in  praise  of  English  valor,  and  so  I  suppose  the 
subject  made  it  popular." 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "anything  about  the 
subject,  for  I  could  not  read  on  till  I  came  to  it;  I  got  through 
half  a  dozen  lines,  but  I  could  observe  no  other  subject  than 
eternal  dullness.  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  David; 
I  am  afraid  he  is  grown  superannuated,  for  his  prologues  and 
epilogues  used  to  be  incomparable." 

"Nothing  is  so  fatiguing,"  said  Mrs.  Thrale,  "as  the  life  of  a 
wit.  He  and  Wilkes  are  the  two  oldest  men  of  their  ages  I  know, 
for  they  have  both  worn  themselves  out  by  being  eternally  on 
the  rack  to  give  entertainment  to  others." 

"David,  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  "looks  much  older  than 
he  is;  for  his  face  has  had  double  the  business  of  any  other 
man's.  It  is  never  at  rest;  when  he  speaks  one  minute,  he  has 
quite  a  different  countenance  to  what  he  assumes  the  next.  I 
don't  believe  he  ever  kept  the  same  look  for  half  an  hour  to- 
gether in  the  whole  course  of  his  life;  and  such  an  eternal,  rest- 
less, fatiguing  play  of  the  muscles  must  certainly  wear  out  a 
man's  face  before  its  real  time." 


DIARY  AND  LETTERS  513 

"O  yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Thrale,  "we  must  certainly  make  some 
allowance  for  such  wear  and  tear  of  a  man's  face." 

The  next  name  that  was  started  was  that  of  Sir  John  Haw- 
kins, and  Mrs.  Thrale  said:  "Why,  now,  Dr.  Johnson,  he  is  an- 
other of  those  whom  you  suffer  nobody  to  abuse  but  yourself; 
Garrick  is  one,  too;  for  if  any  other  person  speaks  against  him, 
you  browbeat  him  in  a  minute!" 

"Why,  madam,"  answered  he,  "they  don't  know  when  to 
abuse  him,  and  when  to  praise  him.  I  will  allow  no  man  to  speak 
ill  of  David  that  he  does  not  deserve;  and  as  to  Sir  John,  why, 
really  I  believe  him  to  be  an  honest  man  at  the  bottom ;  but  to 
be  sure  he  is  penurious,  and  he  is  mean,  and  it  must  be  owned 
he  has  a  degree  of  brutality,  and  a  tendency  to  savageness,  that 
cannot  easily  be  defended." 

We  all  laughed,  as  he  meant  we  should,  at  this  curious  man- 
ner of  speaking  in  his  favor;  and  he  then  related  an  anecdote 
that  he  said  he  knew  to  be  true  in  regard  to  his  meanness.  He 
said  that  Sir  John  and  he  once  belonged  to  the  same  club,  but 
that  as  he  eat  no  supper  after  the  first  night  of  his  admission, 
he  desired  to  be  excused  paying  his  share. 

"And  was  he  excused?" 

"O  yes;  for  no  man  is  angry  at  another  for  being  inferior  to 
himself;  we  all  scorned  him,  and  admitted  his  plea.  For  my 
part,  I  was  such  a  fool  as  to  pay  my  share  for  wine,  though  I 
never  tasted  any.  But  Sir  John  was  a  most  unclubbable  man! 
And  this,"  continued  he,  "reminds  me  of  a  gentleman  and  lady 
with  whom  I  traveled  once;  I  suppose  I  must  call  them  gentle- 
man and  lady,  according  to  form,  because  they  traveled  in  their 
own  coach  and  four  horses.  But  at  the  first  inn  where  we 
stopped,  the  lady  called  for  —  a  pint  of  ale!  and  when  it  came, 
quarreled  with  the  waiter  for  not  giving  full  measure.  Now 
Madame  Duval l  could  not  have  done  a  grosser  thing!" 

Oh,  how  everybody  laughed!  and  to  be  sure  I  did  not  glow 
at  all,  nor  munch  fast,  nor  look  on  my  plate,  nor  lose  any  part  of 
my  usual  composure!  But  how  grateful  do  I  feel  to  this  dear 
Dr.  Johnson,  for  never  naming  me  and  the  book  as  belonging 
one  to  the  other,  and  yet  making  an  allusion  that  showed  his 
thoughts  led  to  it,  and,  at  the  same  time,  that  seemed  to  jus- 
tify the  character  as  being  natural!  But  indeed,  the  delicacy 

i  A  character  in  Miss  Barney's  Evelina. 


Si4  MADAME  D'ARBLAY 

I  met  with  from  him,  and  from  all  the  Thrales,  was  yet  more 
flattering  to  me  than  the  praise  with  which  I  have  heard  they 
have  honored  my  book. 

[THE  KING] 

December  16,  1785. 

.  .  .  After  dinner,  while  Mrs.  Delany  was  left  alone,  as  usual, 
to  take  a  little  rest,  —  for  sleep  it  but  seldom  proves,  —  Mr.  B. 
Dewes,  his  little  daughter,  Miss  Port,  and  myself,  went  into 
the  drawing-room.  And  here,  while,  to  pass  the  time,  I  was 
amusing  the  little  girl  with  teaching  her  some  Christmas  games, 
in  which  her  father  and  cousin  joined,  Mrs.  Delany  came  in. 
We  were  all  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  in  some  confusion! 
but  she  had  but  just  come  up  to  us  to  inquire  what  was  going 
forwards,  and  I  was  disentangling  myself  from  Miss  Dewes,  to 
be  ready  to  fly  off  if  any  one  knocked  at  the  street  door,  when 
the  door  of  the  drawing-room  was  again  opened,  and  a  large 
man,  in  deep  mourning,  appeared  at  it,  entering  and  shutting 
it  himself  without  speaking.  A  ghost  could  not  more  have 
scared  me,  when  I  discovered  by  its  glitter  on  the  black,  a  star! 
The  general  disorder  had  prevented  his  being  seen,  except  by 

myself,  who  was  always  on  the  watch,  till  Miss  P ,  turning 

round,  exclaimed,  "The  king,  aunt!  the  king!" 

0  mercy!  thought  I,  that  I  were  but  out  of  the  room !  Which 
way  shall  I  escape?  and  how  pass  him  unnoticed?  There  is  but 
the  single  door  at  which  he  entered,  in  the  room!  Every  one 

scampered  out  of  the  way,  —  Miss  P ,  to  stand  next  the 

door,  Mr.  Bernard  Dewes  to  a  corner  opposite  it;  his  little  girl 
clung  to  me;  and  Mrs.  Delany  advanced  to  meet  his  Majesty, 
who,  after  quietly  looking  on  till  she  saw  him,  approached  and 
inquired  how  she  did.  He  then  spoke  to  Mr.  Bernard,  whom  he 
had  already  met  two  or  three  times  here. 

1  had  now  retreated  to  the  wall,  and  purposed  gliding  softly, 
though  speedily,  out  of  the  room ;  but  before  I  had  taken  a  single 
step,  the  king,  in  a  loud  whisper  to  Mrs.  Delany,  said,  "Is  that 
Miss  Burney?"  —  and  on  her  answering  "Yes,  sir,"  he  bowed., 
and  with  a  countenance  of  the  most  perfect  good  humor,  came 
close  up  to  me.  A  most  profound  reverence  on  my  part  arrested 
the  progress  of  my  intended  retreat. 

"How  long  have  you  been  come  back,  Miss  Burney?" 


DIARY  AND  LETTERS  515 

"Two  days,  sir." 

Unluckily  he  did  not  hear  me,  and  repeated  his  question;  and 
whether  the  second  time  he  heard  me  or  not,  I  don't  know,  but 
he  made  a  little  civil  inclination  of  his  head,  and  went  back  to 
Mrs.  Delany.  .  .  . 

A  good  deal  of  talk  then  followed  about  his  own  health,  and 
the  extreme  temperance  by  which  he  preserved  it.  The  fault 
of  his  constitution,  he  said,  was  a  tendency  to  excessive  fat, 
which  he  kept,  however,  in  order  by  the  most  vigorous  exercise 
and  the  strictest  attention  to  a  simple  diet.  When  Mrs.  Delany 
was  beginning  to  praise  his  forbearance,  he  stopped  her. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried.  "'T  is  no  virtue;  I  only  prefer  eating 
plain  and  little,  to  growing  diseased  and  infirm." 

During  this  discourse  I  stood  quietly  in  the  place  where  he 
had  first  spoken  to  me.  His  quitting  me  so  soon,  and  conversing 
freely  and  easily  with  Mrs.  Delany,  proved  so  delightful  a  relief 
to  me  that  I  no  longer  wished  myself  away;  and  the  moment  my 
first  panic  from  the  surprise  was  over,  I  diverted  myself  with  a 
thousand  ridiculous  notions  of  my  own  situation.  The  Christ- 
mas games  we  had  been  showing  Miss  Dewes,  it  seemed  as  if 
we  were  still  performing,  as  none  of  us  thought  it  proper  to 
move,  though  our  manner  of  standing  reminded  one  of  "Puss 
in  the  corner."  Close  to  the  door  was  posted  Miss  P ;  oppo- 
site her,  close  to  the  wainscot,  stood  Mr.  Dewes;  at  just  an 
equal  distance  from  him,  close  to  a  window,  stood  myself;  Mrs. 
Delany,  though  seated,  was  at  the  opposite  side  to  Miss 

P ;  and  his  Majesty  kept  pretty  much  in  the  middle  of  the 

room.  The  little  girl,  who  kept  close  to  me,  did  not  break  the 
order,  and  I  could  hardly  help  expecting  to  be  beckoned  with  a 
"  Puss !  puss !  puss ! "  to  change  places  with  one  of  my  neighbors. 
This  idea  afterwards  gave  way  to  another  more  pompous.  It 
seemed  to  me  we  were  acting  a  play.  There  is  something  so 
little  like  common  and  real  life,  in  everybody's  standing,  while 
talking,  in  a  room  full  of  chairs,  and  standing,  too,  so  aloof 
from  each  other,  that  I  almost  thought  myself  upon  a  stage, 
assisting  in  the  representation  of  a  tragedy,  —  in  which  the 
king  played  his  own  part  of  the  king;  Mrs.  Delany  that  of  a 
venerable  confidante;  Mr.  Dewes,  his  respectful  attendant;  Miss 
P—  — ,  a  suppliant  virgin,  waiting  encouragement  to  bring  for- 
ward some  petition;  Miss  Dewes,  a  young  orphan,  intended  to 


5i6  MADAME  D'ARBLAY 

move  the  royal  compassion ;  and  myself,  a  very  solemn,  sober, 
and  decent  mute. 

.These  fancies,  however,  only  regaled  me  while  I  continued  a 
quiet  spectator,  and  without  expectation  of  being  called  into 
play.  But  the  king,  I  have  reason  to  think,  meant  only  to  give 
me  time  to  recover  from  my  first  embarrassment;  and  I  feel 
myself  infinitely  obliged  to  his  good  breeding  and  considera- 
tion, which  perfectly  answered,  for  before  he  returned  to  me  I 
was  entirely  recruited. 

To  go  back  to  my  narration.  When  the  discourse  upon 
health  and  strength  was  over,  the  king  went  up  to  the  table, 
and  looked  at  a  book  of  prints  from  Claude  Lorraine,  which  had 
been  brought  down  for  Miss  Dewes;  but  Mrs.  Delany,  by  mis- 
take, told  him  they  were  for  me.  He  turned  over  a  leaf  or  two, 
and  then  said,  —  "Pray,  does  Miss  Burney  draw,  too?"  The 
too  was  pronounced  very  civilly. 

"I  believe  not,  sir,"  answered  Mrs.  Delany.  "At  least  she 
does  not  tell." 

"  Oh ! "  cried  he,  laughing,  "  that 's  nothing !  She  is  not  apt  to 
tell;  she  never  does  tell,  you  know!  Her  father  told  me  that 
himself.  He  told  me  the  whole  history  of  her  Evelina.  And  I 
shall  never  forget  his  face  when  he  spoke  of  his  feelings  at  first 
taking  up  the  book!  —  he  looked  quite  frightened,  just  as  if  he 
was  doing  it  that  moment !  I  never  can  forget  his  face  while  I 
live!"  Then,  coming  up  close  to  me,  he  said,  "But  what? 
what?  How  was  it?" 

"Sir,"  cried  I.  not  well  understanding  him. 

"How  came  you  —  how  happened  it?  What?  what?" 

"That  was  only,  sir,  only  because  - 

I  hesitated  most  abominably,  not  knowing  how  to  tell  him  a 
long  story,  and  growing  terribly  confused  at  these  questions. 
.  .  .  The  What !  was  then  repeated  with  so  earnest  a  look  that, 
forced  to  say  something,  I  stammeringly  answered,  - 

"  I  thought,  sir,  —  it  would  look  very  well  in  print!" 

I  do  really  flatter  myself  this  is  the  silliest  speech  I  ever 
made!  I  am  quite  provoked  with  myself  for  it;  but  a  fear  of 
laughing  made  me  eager  to  utter  anything,  and  by  no  means 
conscious,  till  I  had  spoken,  of  what  I  was  saying. 

.  .  .  The  sermon  of  the  day  before  was  then  talked  over. 
Mrs.  Delany  had  not  heard  it.  and  the  king  said  it  was  no  great 


DIARY  AND  LETTERS  517 

loss.  He  asked  me  what  I  had  thought  of  it,  and  we  agreed  per- 
fectly, to  the  no  great  exaltation  of  poor  Dr.  L . 

Some  time  afterwards,  the  king  said  he  found  by  the  news- 
papers that  Mrs.  Clive  was  dead.  Do  you  read  the  newspapers? 
thought  I.  Oh,  king!  you  must  then  have  the  most  unvexing 
temper  in  the  world  not  to  run  wild. 

This  led  on  to  more  players.  He  was  sorry,  he  said,  for  Hen- 
derson, and  the  more  as  Mrs.  Siddons  wished  to  have  him  play 
at  the  same  house  with  herself.  Then  Mrs.  Siddons  took  her 
turn,  and  with  the  warmest  praise. 

"I  am  an  enthusiast  for  her,"  cried  the  king,  "quite  an 
enthusiast.  I  think  there  was  never  any  player  in  my  time  so 
excellent  —  not  Garrick  himself ;  I  own  it ! "  Then,  coming  close 
to  me,  who  was  silent,  he  said,  "What?  what?"  — meaning, 
what  say  you?  But  I  still  said  nothing.  I  could  not  concur 
where  I  thought  so  differently,  and  to  enter  into  an  argument 
was  quite  impossible;  for  every  little  thing  I  said  the  king  list- 
ened to  with  an  eagerness  that  made  me  always  ashamed  of  its 
insignificancy.  And,  indeed,  but  for  that  I  should  have  talked 
to  him  with  much  greater  fluency,  as  well  as  ease. 

From  players  he  went  to  plays,  and  complained  of  the  great 
want  of  good  modern  comedies,  and  of  the  extreme  immorality 
of  most  of  the  old  ones. 

"  And  they  pretend,"  cried  he,  "  to  mend  them;  but  it  is  not 
possible.  Do  you  think  it  is?  —  what?  " 

"  No,  sir,  not  often,  I  believe.  The  fault  commonly  lies  in  the 
very  foundation." 

"  Yes,  or  they  might  mend  the  mere  speeches;  but  the  char- 
acters are  all  bad  from  the  beginning  to  the  end." 

Then  he  specified  several;  but  I  had  read  none  of  them,  and 
consequently  could  say  nothing  about  the  matter,  till  at  last 
he  came  to  Shakespeare. 

"  Was  there  ever,"  cried  he,  "  such  stuff  as  great  part  of  Shake- 
speare? Only  one  must  not  say  so!  But  what  think  you? 
What  ?  Is  there  not  sad  stuff  ?  What  ?  what  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  think  so,  sir,  though  mixed  with  such  excel- 
lences that  — 

"  Oh!"  cried  he,  laughing  good-humoredly,  "  I  know  it  is  not 
to  be  said!  but  it's  true.  Only  it's  Shakespeare,  and  nobody 
dare  abuse  him."  .  .  . 


5i8  MADAME  D'ARBLAY 

[THE  TRIAL  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS] 

February  13,  1788. 

In  the  middle  was  placed  a  large  table,  and  at  the  head  of  it 
the  seat  for  the  Chancellor,  and  round  it  seats  for  the  judges, 
the  Masters  in  Chancery,  the  clerks,  and  all  who  belonged  to 
the  law;  the  upper  end,  and  the  right  side  of  the  room,  was  al- 
lotted to  the  peers  in  their  robes ;  the  left  side  to  the  bishops  and 
archbishops.  Immediately  below  the  Great  Chamberlain's  box 
was  the  place  allotted  for  the  prisoner.  On  his  right  side  was  a 
box  for  his  own  counsel,  on  his  left  the  box  for  the  managers, 
or  committee,  for  the  prosecution;  and  these  three  most  im- 
portant of  all  the  divisions  in  the  Hall  were  all  directly  adjoin- 
ing to  where  I  was  seated.  .  .  . 

The  business  did  not  begin  till  near  twelve  o'clock.  The 
opening  to  the  whole  then  took  place,  by  the  entrance  of  the 
managers  of  the  prosecution;  all  the  company  were  already 
long  in  their  boxes  or  galleries.  I  shuddered,  and  drew  involun- 
tarily back,  when,  as  the  doors  were  flung  open,  I  saw  Mr. 
Burke,  as  Head  of  the  Committee,  make  his  solemn  entry.  He 
held  a  scroll  in  his  hand,  and  walked  alone,  his  brow  knit  with 
corroding  care  and  deep  laboring  thought,  —  a  brow  how  dif- 
ferent to  that  which  had  proved  so  alluring  to  my  warmest 
admiration  when  first  I  met  him !  so  highly  as  he  had  been  my 
favorite,  so  captivating  as  I  had  found  his  manners  and  conver- 
sation in  our  first  acquaintance,  and  so  much  as  I  owed  to  his 
zeal  and  kindness  to  me  and  my  affairs  in  its  progress !  How  did 
I  grieve  to  behold  him  now  the  cruel  prosecutor  (such  to  me  he 
appeared)  of  an  injured  and  innocent  man ! 

Mr.  Fox  followed  next,  Mr.  Sheridan,  Mr.  Wyndham, 
Messrs.  Anstruther,  Grey,  Adam,  Michael  Angelo  .Taylor. 
Pelham,  Colonel  North,  Mr.  Frederick  Montagu,  Sir  Gilbert 
Elliot,  General  Burgoyne,  Dudley  Long,  etc.  They  were  all 
named  over  to  me  by  Lady  Claremont,  or  I  should  not  have 
recollected  even  those  of  my  acquaintance,  from  the  shortness 
of  my  sight. 

When  the  committee  box  was  filled,  the  House  of  Commons 
at  large  took  their  seats  on  their  green  benches,  which  stretched, 
as  I  have  said,  along  the  whole  left  side  of  the  Hall.  .  .  .  Then 
began  the  procession,  the  clerks  entering  first,  then  the  lawyers 


DIARY  AND  LETTERS  519 

according  to  their  rank,  and  the  peers,  bishops,  and  officers,  all 
in  their  coronation  robes;  concluding  with  the  Princes  of  the 
Blood,  — Prince  William,  son  to  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  com- 
ing first,  then  the  Dukes  of  Cumberland,  Gloucester,  and  York, 
then  the  Prince  of  Wales;  and  the  whole  ending  by  the  Chan- 
cellor, with  his  train  borne.  They  then  all  took  their  seats. 

A  sergeant-at-arms  arose,  and  commanded  silence  in  the 
court,  on  pain  of  imprisonment.  Then  some  other  officer,  in  a 
loud  voice,  called  out,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  words  to  this 
purpose:  "Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  come  forth!  Answer  to 
the  charges  brought  against  you;  save  your  bail,  or  forfeit  your 
recognizance!"  Indeed  I  trembled  at  these  words,  and  hardly 
could  keep  my  place  when  I  found  Mr.  Hastings  was  being 
brought  to  the  bar.  He  came  forth  from  some  place  imme- 
diately under  the  Great  Chamberlain's  box,  and  was  preceded 
by  Sir  Francis  Molyneux,  Gentleman  Usher  of  the  Black  Rod; 
and  at  each  side  of  him  walked  his  bails,  Messrs.  Sullivan  and 
Sumner.  The  moment  he  came  in  sight,  which  was  not  for  full 
ten  minutes  after  his  awful  summons,  he  made  a  low  bow  to  the 
Chancellor  and  court  facing  him.  I  saw  not  his  face,  as  he  was 
directly  under  me.  He  moved  on  slowly,  and,  I  think,  sup- 
ported between  his  two  bails,  to  the  opening  of  his  own  box; 
there,  lower  still,  he  bowed  again;  and  then,  advancing  to  the 
bar,  he  leant  his  hands  upon  it,  and  dropped  on  his  knees;  but 
a  voice  in  the  same  moment  proclaiming  he  had  leave  to  rise,  he 
stood  up  almost  instantaneously,  and  a  third  tune  profoundly 
bowed  to  the  court.  .  .  . 

The  crier,  I  think  it  was,  made,  in  a  loud  and  hollow  voice,  a 
public  proclamation,  "  that  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  late  Gov- 
ernor-General of  Bengal,  was  now  on  his  trial  for  high  crimes 
and  misdemeanors,  with  which  he  was  charged  by  the  Commons 
of  Great  Britain;  and  that  all  persons  whatsoever  who  had 
aught  to  allege  against  him  were  now  to  stand  forth."  .  .  . 

The  interest  of  this  trial  was  so  much  upon  my  mind  that  I 
have  not  kept  even  a  memorandum  of  what  passed  from  the  i3th 
of  February  to  the  day  when  I  went  again  to  Westminster 
Hall.  .  .  .  The  prisoner  was  brought  in,  and  Mr.  Burke  began 
his  speech.  It  was  the  second  day  of  his  harangue;  the  first  I 
had  not  been  able  to  attend. 


520  MADAME  D'ARBLAY 

All  I  had  heard  of  his  eloquence,  and  all  I  had  conceived  of 
his  great  abilities,  was  more  than  answered  by  his  performance. 
Nervous,  clear,  and  striking  was  almost  all  that  he  uttered ;  the 
main  business,  indeed,  of  his  coming  forth  was  frequently  neg- 
lected, and  not  seldom  wholly  lost;  but  his  excursions  were  so 
fanciful,  so  entertaining,  and  so  ingenious,  that  no  miscellane- 
ous hearer,  like  myself,  could  blame  them.  It  is  true  he  was 
unequal,  but  his  inequality  produced  an  effect  which,  in  so  long 
a  speech,  was  perhaps  preferable  to  greater  consistency,  since, 
though  it  lost  attention  in  its  falling  off,  it  recovered  it  with 
additional  energy  by  some  ascent  unexpected  and  wonderful. 
When  he  narrated,  he  was  easy,  flowing,  and  natural;  when  he 
declaimed,  energetic,  warm,  and  brilliant.  The  sentiments  he 
interspersed  were  as  nobly  conceived  as  they  were  highly  col- 
ored ;  his  satire  had  a  poignancy  of  wit  that  made  it  as  enter- 
taining as  it  was  penetrating.  His  allusions  and  quotations,  as 
far  as  they  were  English  and  within  my  reach,  were  apt  and  in- 
genious ;  and  the  wild  and  sudden  flights  of  his  fancy,  bursting 
forth  from  his  creative  imagination  in  language  fluent,  forcible, 
and  varied,  had  a  charm  for  my  ear  and  my  attention  wholly 
new  and  perfectly  irresistible. 

Were  talents  such  as  these  exercised  in  the  service  of  truth, 
unbiased  by  party  and  prejudice,  how  could  we  sufficiently  ap- 
plaud their  exalted  possessor!  But  though  frequently  he  made 
me  tremble  by  his  strong  and  horrible  representations,  his  own 
violence  recovered  me,  by  stigmatizing  his  assertions  with  per- 
sonal ill-will  and  designing  illiberality.  Yet  at  times  I  confess, 
with  all  that  I  felt,  wished,  and  thought  concerning  Mr.  Hast- 
ings, the  whirlwind  of  his  eloquence  nearly  drew  me  into  its 
vortex.  .  .  . 

[BOSWELL] 

October,  1790. 

The  beautiful  chapel  of  St.  George,  repaired  and  finished  by 
the  best  artists  at  an  immense  expense,  which  was  now  opened 
after  a  very  long  shutting  up  for  its  preparations,  brought  in- 
numerable strangers  to  Windsor,  and,  among  others,  Mr.  Bos- 
well.  This  I  heard,  in  my  way  to  the  chapel,  from  Mr.  Turbu- 
lent,1 who  overtook  me,  and  mentioned  having  met  Mr.  Boswell 
at  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle's  the  evening  before.  He  proposed 

1  A  pseudonym  for  La  Guiffardiere,  French  reader  to  the  Queen. 


DIARY  AND  LETTERS  521 

bringing  him  to  call  upon  me;  but  this  I  declined,  certain  how 
little  satisfaction  would  be  given  here  by  the  entrance  of  a  man 
so  famous  for  compiling  anecdotes.  But  yet  I  really  wished  to 
see  him  again,  for  old  acquaintance'  sake,1  and  unavoidable 

1  [The  record  of  Miss  Burney's  first  meeting  with  Boswell  is  not  found  in  the  Diary, 
but  in  the  Memoirs  of  her  father,  written  in  her  old  age  and  published  1832.  Though 
not  strictly,  therefore,  a  part  of  eighteenth-century  literature,  it  is  too  pertinent  not  to 
be  reproduced:] 

As  Mr.  Boswell  was  at  Streatham  only  upon  a  morning  visit,  a  collation  was  ordered 
to  which  all  were  assembled.  Mr.  Boswell  was  preparing  to  take  a  seat  that  he  seemed,  by 
prescription,  to  consider  as  his  own,  next  to  Dr.  Johnson;  but  Mr.  Seward,  who  was  pres- 
ent, waved  his  hand  for  Mr.  Boswell  to  move  farther  on,  saying  with  a  smile,  "Mr.  Bos- 
well, that  seat  is  Miss  Burney's." 

He  stared,  amazed.  The  asserted  claimant  was  new  and  unknown  to  him,  and  he  ap- 
peared by  no  means  pleased  to  resign  his  prior  rights.  But  after  looking  round  for  a  min- 
ute or  two,  with  an  important  air  of  demanding  the  meaning  of  the  innovation,  and  re- 
ceiving no  satisfaction,  he  reluctantly,  almost  resentfully,  got  another  chair,  and  placed 
it  at  the  back  of  the  shoulder  of  Dr.  Johnson;  while  this  new  and  unheard-of  rival  quietly 
seated  herself  as  if  not  hearing  what  was  passing,  for  she  shrank  from  the  explanation  that 
she  feared  might  ensue,  as  she  saw  a  smile  stealing  over  every  countenance,  that  of  Dr. 
Johnson  himself  not  excepted,  at  the  discomfiture  and  surprise  of  Mr.  Boswell. 

Mr.  Boswell,  however,  was  so  situated  as  not  to  remark  it  in  the  Doctor;  and  of  every 
one  else,  when  in  that  presence,  he  was  unobservant  if  not  contemptuous.  In  truth,  when 
he  met  Dr.  Johnson,  he  commonly  forbore  even  answering  anything  that  went  forward, 
lost  he  should  miss  the  smallest  sound  from  that  voice  to  which  he  paid  such  exclusive, 
though  merited,  homage.  But  the  moment  that  voice  burst  forth,  the  attention  which  it 
excited  in  Mr.  Boswell  amounted  almost  to  pain.  His  eyes  goggled  with  eagerness;  he 
leant  his  ear  almost  on  the  shoulder  of  the  Doctor,  and  his  mouth  dropped  open  to  catch 
every  syllable  that  might  be  uttered;  nay,  he  seemed  not  only  to  dread  losing  a  word,  but 
to  be  anxious  not  to  miss  a  breathing,  as  if  hoping  from  it,  latently  or  mystically,  some 
information. 

But  when,  in  a  few  minutes,  Dr.  Johnson,  whose  eye  did  not  follow  him.  and  who  had 
concluded  him  to  be  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  said  something  gayly  and  good-humor- 
edly,  by  the  appellation  of  Bozzy,  and  discovered,  by  the  sound  of  the  reply,  that  Bozzy 
had  planted  himself,  as  closely  as  he  could,  behind  and  between  the  elbows  of  the  new 
usurper  and  his  own,  the  Doctor  turned  angrily  round  upon  him,  and,  clapping  his  hand 
rather  loudly  upon  his  knee,  said,  in  a  tone  of  displeasure:  "What  do  you  do  there,  sir? 
Go  to  the  table,  sir!" 

Mr.  Boswell  instantly,  and  with  an  air  of  affright,  obeyed;  and  there  was  something  so 
unusual  in  such  humble  submission  to  so  imperious  a  command,  that  another  smile 
gleamed  its  way  across  every  mouth,  except  that  of  the  Doctor  and  of  Mr.  Boswell.  who 
now,  very  unwillingly,  took  a  distant  seat. 

But,  ever  restless  when  not  at  the  side  of  Dr.  Johnson,  he  presently  recollected  some- 
thing that  he  wished  to  exhibit;  and,  hastily  rising,  was  running  away  in  its  search,  when 
the  Doctor,  calling  after  him,  authoritatively  said,  "What  are  you  thinking  of,  sir?  Why 
do  you  get  up  before  the  cloth  is  removed?  Come  back  to  your  place,  sir!" 

Again,  and  with  equal  obsequiousness,  Mr.  Boswell  did  as  he  was  bid;  when  the  Doctor, 
pursing  his  lips  not  to  betray  rising  risibility,  muttered  half  to  himself:  "Running  about 
in  the  middle  of  meals!  One  would  take  you  for  a  Branghton!"  (The  name  of  a  vulgar 
family  in  Miss  Burney's  Evelina.] 

"A  Branghton,  sir?  "  repeated.Mr.  Boswell,  with  earnestness.  "What  is  a  Branghton, 

"Where  have  you  lived,  sir?"  cried  the  Doctor,  laughing,  "  and  what  company  have 
you  kept,  not  to  know  that?" 

Mr.  Boswell  now,  doubly  curious,  yet  always  apprehensive  of  falling  into  so 
with  Dr.  Johnson,  said,  in  a  low  tone,  which  he  knew  the  Doctor  could  not  hear,  to 
Thrale:  "  Pray,  ma'am,  what 's  a  Branghton?  Do  me  the  favor  to  tell  mel  Is  it  some  am- 
mal  nereabouts?" 


522  MADAME  D'ARBLAY 

amusement  from  his  oddity  and  good-humor,  as  well  as  respect 
for  the  object  of  his  constant  admiration,  my  revered  Dr.  John- 
son. I  therefore  told  Mr.  Turbulent  I  should  be  extremely  glad 
to  speak  with  him  after  the  service  was  over. 

Accordingly,  at  the  gate  of  the  choir  Mr.  Turbulent  brought 
him  to  me.  We  saluted  with  mutual  glee.  His  comic-serious 
face  and  manner  have  lost  nothing  of  their  wonted  singularity, 
nor  yet  have  his  mind  and  language,  as  you  will  soon  confess. 
...  I  asked  him  about  Mr.  Burke's  book.  "Oh,"  cried  he,  "it 
will  come  out  next  week;  'tis  the  first  book  in  the  world,  except 
my  own,  and  that's  coming  out  also  very  soon;  only  I  want 
your  help." 

"My  help?" 

"Yes,  madam,  you  must  give  me  some  of  your  choice  little 
notes  of  the  Doctor's;  we  have  seen  him  long  enough  upon 
stilts;  I  want  to  show  him  in  a  new  light.  Grave  Sam,  and  great 
Sam,  and  solemn  Sam,  and  learned  Sam  —  all  these  he  has 
appeared  over  and  over.  Now  I  want  to  entwine  a  wreath  of 
the  graces  across  his  brow;  I  want  to  show  him  as  gay  Sam, 
agreeable  Sam,  pleasant  Sam;  so  you  must  help  me  with  some 
of  his  beautiful  billets  to  yourself." 

I  evaded  this  by  declaring  I  had  not  any  stores  at  hand.  He 
proposed  a  thousand  curious  expedients  to  get  at  them,  but  I 
was  invincible.  ...  He  then  told  me  his  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson 
was  nearly  printed,  and  took  a  proof-sheet  out  of  his  pocket  to 
show  me,  with  crowds  passing  and  repassing,  knowing  me  well, 
and  staring  well  at  him ;  for  we  were  now  at  the  iron  rails  of  the 
Queen's  Lodge.  I  stopped;  I  could  not  ask  him  in.  I  saw  he  ex- 
pected it,  and  was  reduced  to  apologize,  and  tell  him  I  must 
attend  the  Queen  immediately.  .  .  .  Finding  he  had  no  chance 
for  entering,  he  stopped  me  again  at  the  gate,  and  said  he  would 
read  me  a  part  of  his  work.  There  was  no  refusing  this;  and  he 
began,  with  a  letter  of  Dr.  Johnson  to  himself.  He  read  it  in 
strong  imitation  of  the  Doctor's  manner,  —  very  well,  and  not 

Mrs.  Thrale  only  heartily  laughed,  but  without  answering,  as  she  saw  one  of  her  guests 
uneasily  fearful  of  an  explanation.  But  Mr.  Seward  cried:  " I  '11  tell  you,  Boswell,  I  '11  tell 
you,  if  you  will  walk  with  me  into  the  paddock ;  only  let  us  wait  till  the  table  is  cleared,  or 
I  shall  be  taken  for  a  Branghton  too!" 

They  soon  went  off  together,  and  Mr.  Boswell,  no  doubt,  was  fully  informed  of  the  road 
that  had  led  to  the  usurpation  by  which  he  had  thus  been  annoyed.  But  the  Branghton, 
fabricator  took  care  to  mount  to  her  chamber  ere  they  returned,  and  did  not  come  down 
till  Mr.  Boswell  was  gone. 


DIARY  AND  LETTERS  523 

caricature.  But  Mrs.  Schwellenberg  was  at  her  window,  a 
crowd  was  gathering  to  stand  round  the  rails,  and  the  king  and 
queen  and  royal  family  now  approached  from  the  Terrace.  I 
made  a  rather  quick  apology,  and,  with  a  step  as  quick  as  my 
now  weakened  limbs  have  left  in  my  power,  I  hurried  to  my 
apartment. 

June  5,  1791. 

[Mr.  Turbulent]  had  been  reading,  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  Boswell's  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and  the  preference  there 
expressed  of  Mrs.  Lennox  to  all  other  females  had  filled  him 
with  astonishment,  as  he  had  never  even  heard  her  name. 
These  occasional  sallies  of  Dr.  Johnson,  uttered  from  local 
causes  and  circumstances,  but  all  retailed  verbatim  by  Mr. 
Boswell,  are  filling  all  sorts  of  readers  with  amaze,  except  the 
small  party  to  whom  Dr.  Johnson  was  known,  and  who,  by  ac- 
quaintance with  the  power  of  the  moment  over  his  unguarded 
conversation,  know  how  little  of  his  solid  opinion  was  to  be 
gathered  from  his  accidental  assertions. 

...  I  regretted  not  having  the  strength  to  read  this  work 
to  her  Majesty  myself.  It  was  an  honor  I  should  else  have  cer- 
tainly received;  for  so  much  wanted  clearing!  so  little  was  un- 
derstood !  However,  the  Queen  frequently  condescended  to  read 
over  passages  and  anecdotes  which  perplexed  or  offended  her, 
and  there  were  none  I  had  not  a  fair  power  to  soften  or  to  jus- 
tify. Dear  and  excellent  Dr.  Johnson !  I  have  never  forgot  nor 
neglected  his  injunction  given  me  when  he  was  ill,  —  to  stand 
by  him  and  support  him,  and  not  hear  him  abused  when  he  was 
no  more,  and  could  not  defend  himself!  But  little  —  little  did 
I  think  it  would  ever  fall  to  my  lot  to  vindicate  him  to  his  king 
and  queen. 

[BURKE] 

June  18,  1792. 

...  At  length  Mr.  Burke  appeared,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Elliot.  He  shook  hands  with  my  father  as  soon  as  he  had  paid 
his  devoirs  to  Mrs.  Crewe,but  he  returned  my  curtsey  with  so 
distant  a  bow  that  I  concluded  myself  quite  lost  with  him,  from 
my  evident  solicitude  in  poor  Mr.  Hastings's  cause.  I  could  not 
wish  that  less  obvious,  thinking  as  I  think  of  it;  but  I  felt  infin- 
itely grieved  to  lose  the  favor  of  a  man  whom,  in  all  other  arti- 
cles, I  so  much  venerate,  and  whom  indeed  I  esteem  and  admire 


524  MADAME  D'ARBLAY 

as  the  very  first  man  of  true  genius  now  living  in  this  country. 
.  .  .  The  moment  I  was  named,  to  my  great  joy  I  found  Mr. 
Burke  had  not  recollected  me.  He  is  more  near-sighted,  con- 
siderably, than  myself. 

"Miss  Burney!"  he  now  exclaimed,  coming  forward,  and 
quite  kindly  taking  my  hand,  "I  did  not  see  you."  And  then 
he  spoke  very  sweet  words  of  the  meeting,  and  of  my  looking 
far  better  than  "while  I  was  a  courtier,"  and  of  how  he  rejoiced 
to  see  that  I  so  little  suited  that  station.  .  .  .  After  this  my 
father  joined  us,  and  politics  took  the  lead.  He  spoke  then  with 
an  eagerness  and  a  vehemence  that  instantly  banished  the 
graces,  though  it  redoubled  the  energies,  of  his  discourse. 

"The  French  Revolution,"  he  said,  "which  began  by  author- 
izing and  legalizing  injustice,  and  which  by  rapid  steps  had  pro- 
ceeded to  every  species  of  despotism  except  owning  a  despot, 
was  now  menacing  all  the  universe  and  all  mankind  with  the 
most  violent  concussion  of  principle  and  order."  My  father 
heartily  joined,  and  I  tacitly  assented  to  his  doctrines,  though 
I  feared  not  with  his  fears. 

One  speech  I  must  repeat,  for  it  is  explanatory  of  his  conduct, 
and  nobly  explanatory.  When  he  had  expatiated  upon  the  pre- 
sent dangers,  even  to  English  liberty  and  property,  from  the 
contagion  of  havoc  and  novelty,  he  earnestly  exclaimed,  "This 
it  is  that  has  made  me  an  abettor  and  supporter  of  kings! 
Kings  are  necessary,  and  if  we  would  preserve  peace  and  pros- 
perity, we  must  preserve  them.  We  must  all  put  our  shoulders 
to  the  work!  Ay,  and  stoutly,  too!" 

This  subject  lasted  till  dinner.  At  dinner  Mr.  Burke  sat  next 
Mrs.  Crewe,  and  I  had  the  happiness  to  be  seated  next  Mr. 
Burke,  and  my  other  neighbor  was  his  amiable  son.  The  dinner, 
and  the  dessert  when  the  servants  were  removed,  were  delight- 
ful. How  I  wish  my  dear  Susanna  and  Fredy  could  meet  this 
wonderful  man  when  he  is  easy,  happy,  and  with  people  he  cor- 
dially likes!  But  politics,  even  on  his  own  side,  must  always 
be  excluded;  his  irritability  is  so  terrible  on  that  theme  that  it 
gives  immediately  to  his  face  the  expression  of  a  man  who  is 
going  to  defend  himself  from  murderers.  ... 


WILLIAM   COWPER 
LETTERS 

f Cowper's  Letters  were  first  published,  very  incompletely,  in  connection 
with  his  Life  by  Hayley.  The  collection  has  been  increased  at  various 
times,  until  the  complete  edition  by  Thomas  Wright  in  1004.  Practically 
all  the  letters  were  written  from  the  poet's  quiet  home  at  Olney;  the 
larger  number  are  addressed  to  Rev.  John  Newton,  the  evangelical  clergy- 
man with  whom  Cowper  wrote  the  Olney  Hymns,  and  Rev.  William  Un- 
win,  son  of  the  Mrs.  Unwin  with  whom  he  made  his  home.  Some  of  the 
most  agreeable,  again,  were  addressed  to  his  cousin  Lady  Hesketh.] 

TO  MRS.   COWPER 

October  20,  1766. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN: 

...  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  interest  you  take  in  my  wel- 
fare, and  for  your  inquiring  so  particularly  after  the  manner  in 
which  my  time  passes  here.  As  to  amusements,  I  mean  what 
the  world  calls  such,  we  have  none;  the  place  indeed  swarms 
with  them,  and  cards  and  dancing  are  the  professed  business  of 
almost  all  the  gentle  inhabitants  of  Huntingdon.  We  refuse  to 
take  part  in  them,  or  to  be  accessories  to  this  way  of  murdering 
our  time,  and  by  so  doing  have  acquired  the  name  of  Method- 
ists. Having  told  you  how  we  do  not  spend  our  time,  I  will 
next  say  how  we  do.  We  breakfast  commonly  between  eight 
and  nine;  till  eleven,  we^read  either  the  Scripture  or  the  ser- 
mons of  some  faithful  preacher  of  those  holy  mysteries;  at 
eleven  we  attend  divine  service,  which  is  performed  here  twice 
every  day;  and  from  twelve  to  three  we  separate  and  amuse 
ourselves  as  we  please.  During  that  interval  I  either  read  in 
my  own  apartment,  or  walk,  or  ride,  or  work  in  the  garden. 
We  seldom  sit  an  hour  after  dinner,  but  if  the  weather  permits 
adjourn  to  the  garden,  where  with  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  son  I 
have  generally  the  pleasure  of  religious  conversation  till  tea- 
time.  If  it  rains,  or  is  too  windy  for  walking,  we  either  converse 
within  doors,  or  sing  some  hymns  of  Martin's  collection,  and 
by  the  help  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  harpsichord  make  up  a  tolerable 
concert,  in  which  our  hearts,  I  hope,  are  the  best  and  most 


526  WILLIAM   COWPER 

musical  performers.  After  tea  we  sally  forth  to  walk  in  good 
earnest.  Mrs.  Unwin  is  a  good  walker,  and  we  have  generally 
traveled  about  four  miles  before  we  see  home  again.  When  the 
days  are  short,  we  make  this  excursion  in  the  former  part  of  the 
day,  between  church-tune  and  dinner.  At  night  we  read  and 
converse,  as  before,  till  supper,  and  commonly  finish  the  even- 
ing either  with  hymns  or  a  sermon;  and  last  of  all  the  family 
are  called  to  prayers.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  such  a  life  as  this 
is  consistent  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness;  accordingly  we  are 
all  happy,  and  dwell  together  in  unity  as  brethren.  Mrs. 
Unwin  has  almost  a  maternal  affection  for  me,  and  I  have 
something  very  like  a  filial  one  for  her;  and  her  son  and  I  are 
brothers.  Blessed  be  the  God  of  our  salvation  for  such  com- 
panions, and  for  such  a  life;  above  all,  for  a  heart  to  like  it.  ... 

TO  REV.   WILLIAM  UNWIN 

October  31,  1779. 

.  .  .  I  have  been  well  entertained  with  Johnson's  biographies, 
for  which  I  thank  you ;  with  one  exception,  and  that  a  swingeing 
one,  I  think  he  has  acquitted  himself  with  his  usual  good  sense 
and  sufficiency.  His  treatment  of  Milton  is  unmerciful  to  the 
last  degree.1  A  pensioner  is  not  likely  to  spare  a  republican; 
and  the  Doctor,  in  order,  I  suppose,  to  convince  his  royal  patron 
of  the  sincerity  of  his  monarchical  principles,  has  belabored 
that  great  poet's  character  with  the  most  industrious  cruelty. 
As  a  man,  he  has  hardly  left  him  the  shadow  of  one  good  qual- 
ity. Churlishness  in  his  private  life,  and  a  rancorous  hatred  oi 
everything  royal  in  his  public,  are  the  two  colors  with  which  he 
has  smeared  all  the  canvas.  If  he  had  any  virtues,  they  are  not 
to  be  found  in  the  Doctor's  picture  of  him;  and  it  is  well  for 
Milton  that  some  sourness  in  his  temper  is  the  only  vice  with 
which  his  memory  has  been  charged;  it  is  evident  enough  that, 
if  his  biographer  could  have  discovered  more,  he  would  not 
have  spared  him.  As  a  poet,  he  has  treated  him  with  severity 
enough,  and  has  plucked  one  or  two  of  the  most  beautiful 
feathers  out  of  his  Muse's  wing,  and  trampled  them  under  his 
great  foot.  He  has  passed  sentence  of  condemnation  upon 
Lycidas,  and  has  taken  occasion  from  that  charming  poem  to 
expose  to  ridicule  (what  is  indeed  ridiculous  enough)  the  child- 

1  See  page  387,  above. 


LETTERS  527 

k'sh  prattlement  of  pastoral  compositions,  as  if  Lycidas  was  the 
prototype  and  pattern  of  them  all.  The  liveliness  of  the  de- 
scription, the  sweetness  of  the  numbers,  the  classical  spirit  of 
antiquity  that  prevails  in  it,  go  for  nothing.  I  am  convinced, 
by  the  way,  that  he  has  no  ear  for  poetical  numbers,  or  that  it 
was  stopped  by  prejudice  against  the  harmony  of  Milton's. 
Was  there  ever  anything  so  delightful  as  the  music  of  the  Para- 
dise Lost!  It  is  like  that  of  a  fine  organ;  has  the  fullest  and 
deepest  tones  of  majesty,  with  all  the  softness  and  elegance 
of  the  Dorian  flute;  variety  without  end,  and  never  equaled, 
unless  perhaps  by  Virgil.  Yet  the  Doctor  has  little  or  nothing 
to  say  upon  this  copious  theme,  but  talks  something  about  the 
unfitness  of  the  English  language  for  blank  verse,  and  how  apt 
it  is,  in  the  mouth  of  some  readers,  to  degenerate  into  declama- 
tion. Oh !  I  could  thresh  his  old  jacket,  till  I  made  his  pension 
jingle  in  his  pocket!  .  .  . 

January  5,  1782. 

...  In  the  last  Review,  I  mean  in  the  last  but  one,  I  saw 
Johnson's  critique  upon  Prior  and  Pope.  I  am  bound  to  acqui- 
esce in  his  opinion  of  the  latter,  because  it  has  always  been  my 
own.  I  could  never  agree  with  those  who  preferred  him  to 
Dryden;  nor  with  others  (I  have  known  such,  and  persons  of 
taste  and  discernment  too)  who  could  not  allow  him  to  be  a 
poet  at  all.  He  was  certainly  a  mechanical  maker  of  verses,  and 
in  every  line  he  ever  wrote  we  see  indubitable  marks  of  the 
most  indefatigable  industry  and  labor.  Writers  who  find  it 
necessary  to  make  such  strenuous  and  painful  exertions  are 
generally  as  phlegmatic  as  they  are  correct;  but  Pope  was,  in 
this  respect,  exempted  from  the  common  lot  of  authors  of  that 
class.  With  the  unwearied  application  of  a  plodding  Flemish 
painter,  who  draws  a  shrimp  with  the  most  minute  exactness, 
he  had  all  the  genius  of  one  of  the  first  masters.  Never,  I  be- 
lieve, were  such  talents  and  such  drudgery  united.  But  I 
admire  Dryden  most,  who  has  succeeded  by  mere  dint  of 
genius,  and  in  spite  of  a  laziness  and  carelessness  almost  pecu- 
liar to  himself.  His  faults  are  numberless,  but  so  are  his  beau- 
ties. His  faults  are  those  of  a  great  man,  and  his  beauties  are 
such  (at  least  sometimes)  as  Pope,  with  all  his  touching  and 
retouching,  could  never  equal.  So  far,  therefore,  I  have  no 
quarrel  with  Johnson.  But  I  cannot  subscribe  to  what  he  says 


528  WILLIAM  COWPER 

of  Prior.  In  the  first  place,  though  my  memory  may  fail  me,  I 
do  not  recollect  that  he  takes  any  notice  of  his  Solomon,  —  in 
my  mind  the  best  poem,  whether  we  consider  the  subject  of  it 
or  the  execution,  that  he  ever  wrote.  In  the  next  place,  he  con- 
demns him  for  introducing  Venus  and  Cupid  into  his  love- 
verses,  and  concludes  it  impossible  his  passion  could  be  sincere, 
because  when  he  would  express  it  he  has  recourse  to  fables.  But 
when  Prior  wrote,  those  deities  were  not  so  obsolete  as  now.  His 
contemporary  writers,  and  some  that  succeeded  him,  did  not 
think  them  beneath  their  notice.  ...  I  admire  Johnson  as  a 
man  of  great  erudition  and  sense;  but  when  he  sets  himself  up 
for  a  judge  of  writers  upon  the  subject  of  love,  a  passion  which 
I  suppose  he  never  felt  in  his  life,  he  might  as  well  think  him- 
self qualified  to  pronounce  upon  a  treatise  on  horsemanship,  or 
the  art  of  fortification.  .  .  . 

TO  REV.   JOHN  NEWTON 

July  27,  1783. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  You  cannot  have  more  pleasure  in  receiv- 
ing a  letter  from  me  than  I  should  find  in  writing  it,  were  it 
not  almost  impossible  hi  such  a  place  to  find  a  subject. 

I  live  in  a  world  abounding  with  incidents,  upon  which  many 
grave  and  perhaps  some  profitable  reflections  might  be  made; 
but  those  incidents  never  reaching  my  unfortunate  ears,  both 
the  entertaining  narrative  and  the  reflection  it  might  suggest 
are  to  me  annihilated  and  lost.  I  look  back  to  the  past  week, 
and  say,  what  did  it  produce?  I  ask  the  same  question  of  the 
week  preceding,  and  duly  receive  the  same  answer  from  both, 
—  nothing!  A  situation  like  this,  in  which  I  am  as  unknown  to 
the  world  as  I  am  ignorant  of  all  that  passes  in  it,  in  which  I 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  think,  would  exactly  suit  me,  were 
my  subjects  of  meditation  as  agreeable  as  my  leisure  is  unin- 
terrupted. My  passion  for  retirement  is  not  at  all  abated,  after 
so  many  years  spent  in  the  most  sequestered  state,  but  rather 
increased;  —  a  circumstance  I  should  esteem  wonderful  to  a 
degree  not  to  be  accounted  for,  considering  the  condition  of  my 
mind,  did  I  not  know  that  we  think  as  we  are  made  to  think,  and 
of  course  approve  and  prefer  as  Providence,  who  appoints  the 
bounds  of  our  habitation,  chooses  for  us.  Thus  am  I  both  free 
and  a  prisoner  at  the  same  time.  The  world  is  before  me;  I  am 


LETTERS 

not  shut  up  in  the  Bastille;  there  are  no  moats  about  my  castle, 
no  locks  upon  my  gates  of  which  I  have  not  the  key;  but  an 
invisible,  uncontrollable  agency,  a  local  attachment,  an  in- 
clination more  forcible  than  I  ever  felt,  even  to  the  place  of  my 
birth,  serves  me  for  prison  walls,  and  for  bounds  which  I  cannot 
pass.  ...  So  it  is,  and  it  is  so  because  here  is  to  be  my  abode, 
and  because  such  is  the  appointment  of  Him  that  placed  me  in 
it.  ... 

TO  REV.   WILLIAM  UNWIN 

September  29,  1783. 

.  .  .  By  the  way,  what  is  your  opinion  of  these  air  balloons? 
I  am  quite  charmed  with  the  discovery.  Is  it  not  possible  —  do 
you  suppose  —  to  convey  such  a  quantity  of  inflammable  air 
into  the  stomach  and  abdomen,  that  the  philosopher,  no  longer 
gravitating  to  a  centre,  shall  ascend  by  his  own  comparative 
levity,  and  never  stop  till  he  has  reached  the  medium  exactly 
in  equilibria  with  himself?  May  he  not,  by  the  help  of  a  paste- 
board rudder  attached  to  his  posteriors,  steer  himself  in  that 
pure  element  with  ease;  and  again,  by  a  slow  and  gradual  dis- 
charge of  his  aerial  contents,  recover  his  former  tendency  to  the 
earth,  and  descend  without  the  smallest  danger  or  inconven- 
ience? These  things  are  worth  inquiry,  and  I  dare  say  they  will 
be  inquired  after  as  they  deserve.  The  pennce  non  homini  dates1 
are  likely  to  be  less  regretted  than  they  were;  and  perhaps,  a 
flight  of  academicians  and  a  covey  of  fine  ladies  may  be  no 
uncommon  spectacle  in  the  next  generation.  A  letter  which 
appeared  in  the  public  prints  last  week  convinces  me  that  the 
learned  are  not  without  hopes  of  some  such  improvement  upon 
this  discovery.  The  author  is  a  sensible  and  ingenious  man,  and, 
under  a  reasonable  apprehension  that  the  ignorant  may  feel 
themselves  inclined  to  laugh  upon  a  subject  that  affects  himself 
with  the  utmost  seriousness,  with  much  good  manners  and 
management  bespeaks  their  patience,  suggesting  many  good 
consequences  that  may  result  from  a  course  of  experiments 
upon  this  machine;  and  amongst  others,  that  it  may  be  of  use 
in  ascertaining  the  shape  of  continents  and  islands,  and  the 
face  of  wide-extended  and  far  distant  countries,  —  an  end  not 
to  be  hoped  for,  unless  by  these  means  of  extraordinary  eleva- 
tion the  human  prospect  may  be  immensely  enlarged,  and  the 

1  "  Wings  denied  to  men." 


530  WILLIAM  COWPER 

philosopher,  exalted  to  the  skies,  attain  a  view  of  the  whole 
hemisphere  at  once.  But  whether  he  is  to  ascend  by  the  mere 
inflation  of  his  person,  as  hinted  above,  or  whether  in  a  sort 
of  bandbox,  supported  upon  balloons,  is  not  yet  apparent, 
nor  —  I  suppose  —  even  in  his  own  idea  perfectly  decided. 

TO  REV.   JOHN  NEWTON 

November  30,  1783. 

.  .  .  Let  our  station  be  as  retired  as  it  may,  there  is  no  want 
of  playthings  and  avocations,  nor  much  need  to  seek  them, 
in  this  world  of  ours.  Business,  or  what  presents  itself  to  us 
under  that  imposing  character,  will  find  us  out  even  in  the  still- 
est retreat,  and  plead  its  importance,  however  trivial  in  reality, 
as  a  just  demand  upon  our  attention.  It  is  wonderful  how,  by 
means  of  such  real  or  seeming  necessities,  my  time  is  stolen 
away.  I  have  just  time  to  observe  that  time  is  short,  and  by  the 
time  I  have  made  the  observation,  time  is  gone.  I  have  won- 
dered in  former  days  at  the  patience  of  the  antediluvian  world, 
—  that  they  could  endure  a  life  almost  millenary,  with  so  little 
variety  as  seems  to  have  fallen  to  their  share  .  .It  is  probable 
that  they  had  much  fewer  employments  than  we.  Their  affairs 
lay  in  a  narrower  compass;  their  libraries  were  indifferently 
furnished;  philosophical  researches  were  carried  on  with  much 
less  industry  and  acuteness  of  penetration;  and  fiddles,  per- 
haps, were  not  even  invented.  How  then  could  seven  or  eight 
hundred  years  of  life  be  supportable?  I  have  asked  this  ques- 
tion formerly,  and  been  at  a  loss  to  resolve  it;  but  I  think  I  can 
answer  it  now.  I  will  suppose  myself  born  a  thousand  years  be- 
fore Noah  was  born  or  thought  of.  I  rise  with  the  sun;  I  wor- 
ship; I  prepare  my  breakfast;  I  swallow  a  bucket  of  goat's  milk, 
and  a  dozen  good  sizable  cakes.  I  fasten  a  new  string  to  my 
bow,  and  my  youngest  boy,  a  lad  of  about  thirty  years  of  age, 
having  played  with  my  arrows  till  he  has  stripped  off  all  the 
feathers,  I  find  myself  obliged  to  repair  them.  The  morning  is 
thus  spent  in  preparing  for  the  chase,  and  it  is  become  necessary 
that  I  should  dine.  I  dig  up  my  roots;  I  wash  them;  I  boil 
them;  I  find  them  not  done  enough;  I  boil  them  again;  my  wife 
is  angry;  we  dispute;  we  settle  the  point;  but  in  the  mean  time 
the  fire  goes  out,  and  must  be  kindled  again.  All  this  is  very 
amusing.  I  hunt;  I  bring  home  the  prey;  with  the  skin  of  it  I 


LETTERS  53I 

mend  an  old  coat,  or  I  make  a  new  one.  By  this  time  the  day 
is  far  spent;  I  feel  myself  fatigued,  and  retire  to  rest.  Thus, 
what  with  tilling  the  ground  and  eating  the  fruit  of  it,  hunting 
and  walking  and  running,  and  mending  old  clothes,  and  sleep- 
ing and  rising  again,  I  can  suppose  an  inhabitant  of  the  pri- 
maeval world  so  much  occupied  as  to  sigh  over  the  shortness  of 
life,  and  to  find  at  the  end  of  many  centuries  that  they  had  all 
slipped  through  his  fingers,  and  were  passed  away  like  a  shadow. 

September  18,  1784. 

.  .  .  My  greenhouse  is  never  so  pleasant  as  when  we  are  just 
upon  the  point  of  being  turned  out  of  it.  ...  I  sit  with  all  the 
windows  and  the  door  wide  open,  and  am  regaled  with  the 
scent  of  every  flower  in  a  garden  as  full  of  flowers  as  I  have 
known  how  to  make  it.  We  keep  no  bees,  but  if  I  lived  in  a 
hive  I  should  hardly  hear  more  of  their  music.  All  the  bees  in 
the  neighborhood  resort  to  a  bed  of  mignonette  opposite  to  the 
window,  and  pay  me  for  the  honey  they  get  out  of  it  by  a  hum 
which,  though  rather  monotonous,  is  as  agreeable  to  my  ear  as 
the  whistling  of  my  linnets.  All  the  sounds  that  nature  utters 
are  delightful,  —  at  least  in  this  country.  I  should  not,  per- 
haps, find  the  roaring  of  lions  in  Africa,  or  of  bears  in  Russia. 
very  pleasing;  but  I  know  no  beast  in  England  whose  voice  I 
do  not  account  musical,  save  and  except  always  the  braying  of 
an  ass.  The  notes  of  all  our  birds  and  fowls  please  me,  without 
one  exception.  I  should  not,  indeed,  think  of  keeping  a  goose 
in  a  cage,  that  I  might  hang  him  up  in  the  parlor  for  the  sake 
of  his  melody;  but  a  goose  upon  a  common,  or  in  a  farm-yard,  is 
no  bad  performer.  And  as  to  insects,  if  the  black  beetle,  and 
beetles  indeed  of  all  hues,  will  keep  out  of  my  way,  I  have  no 
objection  to  any  of  the  rest;  on  the  contrary,  in  whatever  key 
they  sing,  from  the  gnat's  fine  treble  to  the  bass  of  the  humble 
bee,  I  admire  them  all.  Seriously,  however,  it  strikes  me  as  a 
very  observable  instance  of  providential  kindness  to  man,  that 
such  an  exact  accord  has  been  contrived  between  his  ear  and 
the  sounds  with  which  —  at  least  in  a  rural  situation  —  it  is 
almost  every  moment  visited.  All  the  world  is  sensible  of  the 
uncomfortable  effect  that  certain  sounds  have  upon  the  nerves, 
and  consequently  upon  the  spirits;  and  if  a  sinful  world  had 
been  filled  with  such  as  would  have  curdled  the  blood,  and  have 


532  WILLIAM   COWPER 

made  the  sense  of  hearing  a  perpetual  inconvenience,  I  do  not 
know  that  we  should  have  had  a  right  to  complain.  But  now 
the  fields,  the  woods,  the  gardens,  have  each  their  concert,  and 
the  ear  of  man  is  forever  regaled  by  creatures  who  seem  only  to 
please  themselves.  Even  the  ears  that  are  deaf  to  the  Gospel 
are  continually  entertained,  though  without  knowing  it,  by 
sounds  for  which  they  are  solely  indebted  to  its  Author.  There 
is  somewhere  in  infinite  space  a  world  that  does  not  roll  within 
the  precincts  of  mercy,  and  as  it  is  reasonable,  and  even  scrip- 
tural, to  suppose  that  there  is  music  in  heaven,  in  those  dismal 
regions  perhaps  the  reverse  of  it  is  found,  —  tones  so  dismal  as 
to  make  woe  itself  more  insupportable,  and  to  acuminate  even 
despair.  .  .  . 

TO  LADY  HESKETH 

December  15,  1785. 

...  It  would  ill  become  me  avowedly  to  point  out  the  faults 
of  Pope  in  a  preface,  and  would  be  as  impolitic  as  indecent. 
But  to  you,  my  dear,  I  can  utter  my  mind  freely.  Let  me  pre- 
mise, however,  that  you  answered  the  gentleman's  inquiry 
whether  in  blank  verse  or  not,  to  a  marvel.  It  is  even  so;  and 
let  some  critics  say  what  they  will,  I  aver  it,  and  will  forever 
aver  it,  that  to  give  a  just  representation  of  Homer  in  rhyme 
is  a  natural  impossibility.  Now  for  Pope  himself:  I  will  allow 
his  whole  merit.  He  has  written  a  great  deal  of  very  musical 
and  sweet  verse  in  his  translation  of  Homer,  but  his  verse  is 
not  universally  such ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  often  lame,  feeble, 
and  flat.  He  has,  besides,  occasionally  a  felicity  of  expression 
peculiar  to  himself;  but  it  is  a  felicity  purely  modern,  and  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Homer.  Except  the  Bible,  there  never  was 
in  the  world  a  book  so  remarkable  for  that  species  of  the  sub- 
blime  that  owes  its  very  existence  to  simplicity,  as  the  works  of 
Homer.  He  is  always  nervous,  plain,  natural.  I  refer  you  to 
your  own  knowledge  of  his  copyist  for  a  decision  upon  Pope's 
merits  in  these  particulars.  The  garden  in  all  the  gayety  of 
June  is  less  flowery  than  his  translation.  Metaphors  of  which 
Homer  never  dreamt,  which  he  did  not  seek,  and  which  prob- 
ably he  would  have  disdained  if  he  had  found,  follow  each  other 
in  quick  succession  like  the  sliding  pictures  in  a  show  box. 
Homer  is,  on  occasions  that  call  for  such  a  style,  the  easiest  and 
most  familiar  of  writers;  a  circumstance  that  escaped  Pope 


LETTERS  533 

entirely,  who  takes  most  religious  care  that  he  shall  everywhere 
strut  in  buckram.  .  .  .  In  short,  my  dear,  there  is  hardly  any- 
thing in  the  world  so  unlike  another,  as  Pope's  version  of 
Homer  to  the  original.  Give  me  a  great  corking-pin,  that  I  may 
stick  your  faith_upon  my  sleeve.  There — it  is  done!  Now  as- 
sure yourself,  upon  the  credit  of  a  man  who  made  Homer  much 
his  study  in  his  youth,  and  who  is  perhaps  better  acquainted 
with  Pope's  translation  of  him  than  almost  any  man,  having 
twenty-five  years  ago  compared  them  with  each  other  line  by 
line  throughout,  —  upon  the  credit  of  a  man,  too,  who  would  not 
for  the  world  deceive  you  in  the  smallest  matter,  —  that  Pope 
never  entered  into  the  spirit  of  Homer,  that  he  never  translated 
him,  —  I  had  almost  said,  did  not  understand  him;  many  pas- 
sages it  is  literally  true  he  did  not.  Why,  when  he  first  entered 
on  his  task,  did  he  (as  he  did,  by  his  own  confession)  forever 
dream  that  he  was  wandering  in  unknown  ways,  that  he  was 
lost  upon  heaths  and  forests,  and  awoke  in  terror?  I  will  tell 
you,  my  dear;  his  dreams  were  emblems  of  his  waking  experi- 
ence; and  I  am  mistaken  if  I  could  not  go  near  to  prove  that  at 
his  first  setting  out  he  knew  very  little  of  Greek,  and  was  never 
an  adept  in  it,  to  the  last.  .  .  . 


THE    MONTHLY   REVIEW 
DECEMBER,  1786 

[This  journal,  the  earliest  of  English  critical  reviews,  was  founded  by 
the  bookseller  Ralph  Griffiths,  who  conducted  it  till  his  death,  in  1803.  It 
was  Whig  and  nonconformist  in  attitude;  see  Dr.  Johnson's  remark  com- 
paring it  and  its  Tory  rival  (founded  1756)  The  Critical  Review,  quoted  by 
Boswell,  page  650,  below.  The  present  extract  is  reproduced  both  for  its 
interest  as  exemplifying  the  attitude  of  the  Monthly  toward  a  new  poet, 
and  its  connection  with  the  earliest  volume  of  Burns's  poems.] 

Poems,  chiefly  in  the  Scottish  Dialect.  By  Robert  Burns.  8vo.  Kilmar- 
nock.  i 786. 

Poeta  nascitur  nonfit  is  an  old  maxim,  the  truth  of  which  has 
been  generally  admitted;  and  although  it  be  certain  that  in 
modern  times  many  verses  are  manufactured  from  the  brain  of 
their  authors  with  as  much  labor  as  the  iron  is  drawn  into  form 
under  the  hammer  of  the  smith,  and  require  to  be  afterwards 
smoothed  by  the  file  with  as  much  care  as  the  burnishers  of 
Sheffield  employ  to  give  the  last  finish  to  their  wares,  yet  after 
all  these  verses,  though  ever  so  smooth,  are  nothing  but  verses, 
and  have  no  geniune  title  to  the  name  of  Poems.  The  humble 
bard  whose  work  now  demands  our  attention  cannot  claim  a 
place  among  these  polished  versifiers.  His  simple  strains,  art- 
less and  unadorned,  seem  to  flow  without  effort  from  the  native 
feelings  of  the  heart.  They  are  always  nervous,  sometimes 
inelegant,  often  natural,  simple,  and  sublime.  The  objects  that 
have  obtained  the  attention  of  the  author  are  humble ;  for  he 
himself,  born  in  a  low  station,  and  following  a  laborious  em- 
ployment, has  had  no  opportunity  of  observing  scenes  in  the 
higher  walks  of  life.  Yet  his  verses  are  sometimes  struck  off  with 
a  delicacy  and  artless  simplicity  that  charms  like  the  bewitch- 
ing though  irregular  touches  of  a  Shakespeare. 

We  much  regret  that  these  poems  are  written  in  some  meas- 
ure in  an  unknown  tongue,  which  must  deprive  most  of  our 
readers  of  the  pleasure  they  would  otherwise  naturally  create, 
being  composed  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  which  contains  many 
words  that  are  altogether  unknown  to  an  English  reader.  Be- 


POEMS  BY  ROBERT  BURNS       53S 

side,  they  abound  with  allusions  to  the  modes  of  life,  opinions, 
and  ideas  of  the  people  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  country,  which 
would  render  many  passages  obscure,  and  consequently  unin- 
teresting, to  those  who  perceive  not  the  forcible  accuracy  ol 
the  picture  of  the  objects  to  which  they  allude.  This  work, 
therefore,  can  only  be  fully  relished  by  the  natives  of  the  part 
of  the  country  where  it  was  produced;  but  by  such  of  them  as 
have  a  taste  sufficiently  refined  to  be  able  to  relish  the  beauties 
of  nature,  it  cannot  fail  to  be  highly  prized. 

By  what  we  can  collect  from  the  poems  themselves,  and 
the  short  preface  to  them,  the  author  seems  to  be  struggling 
with  poverty,  though  cheerfully  supporting  the  fatigues  of  a 
laborious  employment.  He  thus  speaks  of  himself  in  one  of  the 
poems :  — 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat, 

And  damn'd  my  fortune  to  the  groat; 

But,  in  requite, 
Has  blessed  me  with  a  random  shot 

Of  country  wit.  .  .  . 

"None  of  the  following  works  "(we  are  told  in  the  Preface) 
"were  ever  composed  with  a  view  to  the  press.  To  amuse  him- 
self with  the  little  creations  of  his  own  fancy,  amid  the  toil  and 
fatigues  of  a  laborious  life;  to  transcribe  the  various  feelings,  the 
loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears  in  his  own  breast;  to  find 
some  kind  of  counterpoise  to  the  struggles  of  a  world,  always  an 
alien  scene,  a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind  —  these  were 
his  motives  for  courting  the  Muses,  and  in  these  he  found 
poetry  its  own  reward." 

These  poems  are  chiefly  in  the  comic  strain.  Some  are  of  the 
descriptive  cast,  particularly  Hallow-e'en,  which  contains  a 
lively  picture  of  the  magical  tricks  that  still  are  practiced  in  the 
country  at  that  season.  It  is  a  valuable  relic  which,  like  Virgil's 
eighth  Eclogue,  will  preserve  the  memory  of  these  simple  in- 
cantations long  after  they  would  otherwise  have  been  lost.  It 
is  very  properly  accompanied  with  notes  explaining  the  circum- 
stances to  which  the  poem  alludes.  Sometimes  the  poems  are 
in  the  elegiac  strain,  among  which  class  the  reader  will  find 
much  of  nature  in  the  lines  to  a  Mouse,  on  turning  up  her  nest 
with  the  plough,  in  November,  1785,  and  those  to  a  Moun- 


536  THE   MONTHLY  REVIEW 

tain  Daisy,  on  turning  one  down  with  the  plough,  in  April, 
1786 

The  modern  ear  will  be  somewhat  disgusted  with  the  measure 
of  many  of  these  pieces,  which  is  faithfully  copied  from  that 
which  was  most  in  fashion  among  the  ancient  Scottish  bards, 
but  hath  been  —  we  think  with  good  reason  —  laid  aside  by 
later  poets.  The  versification  is,  in  general,  easy,  and  it  seems 
to  have  been  a  matter  of  indifference  to  our  author  in  what 
measure  he  wrote.  But  if  ever  he  should  think  of  offering  any- 
thing more  to  the  public,  we  are  of  opinion  his  performances 
would  be  more  highly  valued  were  they  written  in  measures  less 
antiquated. 

The  few  songs,  odes,  dirges,  etc.,  in  this  collection  are  very 
poor  in  comparison  of  the  other  pieces.  The  author's  mind  is 
not  sufficiently  stored  with  brilliant  ideas  to  succeed  in  that  line. 

In  justice  to  the  reader,  however,  as  well  as  the  author,  we 
must  observe  that  this  collection  may  be  compared  to  a  heap 
of  wheat  carelessly  winnowed.  Some  grain  of  a  most  excellent 
quality  is  mixed  with  a  little  chaff  and  half-ripened  corn.  How 
many  splendid  volumes  of  poems  come  under  our  review,  in 
which,  though  the  mere  chaff  be  carefully  separated,  not  a  sin- 
gle atom  of  perfect  grain  can  be  found,  all  being  light  and  in- 
sipid! We  never  reckon  our  task  fatiguing  when  we  can  find, 
even  among  a  great  heap,  a  single  pearl  of  price;  but  how  piti- 
able is  our  lot  when  we  must  toil  and  toil,  and  can  find  nothing 
but  tiresome  uniformity,  with  neither  fault  to  rouse  nor  beauty 
to  animate  the  jaded  spirits! 


EDWARD  GIBBON 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF 
THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE 

1776-88 

[This  work,  the  chief  history  of  the  century,  whether  regarded  as  a  work 
of  learning  or  of  literature,  began  to  appear  in  1776,  and  the  sixth  and 
last  volume  was  published  on  the  author's  fifty-first  birthday,  April  27, 
1788.  For  his  own  account  of  the  inception  and  completion  of  the  History,' 
see  the  extracts  from  the  Memoirs,  pages545~6,  below.  The  present  extract 
is  from  the  opening  of  Volume  V;  in  presenting  a  sketch  of  the  contents  of 
that  and  the  final  volume,  it  well  exemplifies  Gibbon's  panoramic  method.) 

CHAPTER  XLVIH 

I  HAVE  now  deduced  from  Trajan  to  Constantine,  from  Con- 
stantme  to  Heraclius,  the  regular  series  of  the  Roman  emperors; 
and  faithfully  exposed  the  prosperous  and  adverse  fortunes  of 
their  reigns.  Five  centuries  of  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  empire 
have  already  elapsed;  but  a  period  of  more  than  eight  hundred 
years  still  separates  me  from  the  term  of  my  labors,  the  taking 
of  Constantinople  by  the  Turks.  Should  I  persevere  in  the 
same  course,  should  I  observe  the  same  measure,  a  prolix  and 
slender  thread  would  be  spun  through  many  a  volume,  nor 
would  the  patient  reader  find  an  adequate  reward  of  instruc- 
tion or  amusement.  At  every  step,  as  we  sink  deeper  in  the  de- 
cline and  fall  of  the  Eastern  Empire,  the  annals  of  each  suc- 
ceeding reign  would  impose  a  more  ungrateful  and  melancholy 
task.  These  annals  must  continue  to  repeat  a  tedious  and  uni- 
form tale  of  weakness  and  misery;  the  natural  connection  of 
causes  and  events  would  be  broken  by  frequent  and  hasty 
transitions,  and  a  minute  accumulation  of  circumstances  must 
destroy  the  light  and  effect  of  those  general  pictures  which 
compose  the  use  and  ornament  of  a  remote  history.  From  the 
time  of  Heraclius  the  Byzantine  theatre  is  contracted  and 
darkened :  the  line  of  empire,  which  had  been  defined  by  the 
laws  of  Justinian  and  the  arms  of  Belisarius,  recedes  on  all 
sides  from  our  view;  the  Roman  name,  the  proper  subject  of 


538  EDWARD   GIBBON 

our  inquiries,  is  reduced  to  a  narrow  corner  of  Europe,  to  the 
lonely  suburbs  of  Constantinople;  and  the  fate  of  the  Greek 
empire  has  been  compared  to  that  of  the  Rhine,  which  loses 
itself  in  the  sands  before  its  waters  can  mingle  in  the  ocean. 
The  scale  of  dominion  is  diminished  to  our  view  by  the  dis- 
tance of  time  and  place;  nor  is  the  loss  of  external  splendor 
compensated  by  the  nobler  gifts  of  virtue  and  genius.  In  the 
last  moments  of  her  decay  Constantinople  was  doubtless  more 
opulent  and  prosperous  than  Athens  at  her  ftiost  flourishing 
era,  when  a  scanty  sum  of  six  thousand  talents,  or  twelve  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  sterling,  was  possessed  by  twenty-one 
thousand  male  citizens  of  an  adult  age.  But  each  of  these  citi- 
zens was  a  freeman  who  dared  to  assert  the  liberty  of  his 
thoughts,  words,  and  actions;  whose  person  and  property  were 
guarded  by  equal  law;  and  who  exercised  his  independent  vote 
in  the  government  of  the  republic.  Their  numbers  seem  to  be 
multiplied  by  the  strong  and  various  discriminations  of  char- 
acter; under  the  shield  of  freedom,  on  the  wings  of  emulation 
and  vanity,  each  Athenian  aspired  to  the  level  of  the  national 
dignity;  from  this  commanding  eminence  some  chosen  spirits 
soared  beyond  the  reach  of  a  vulgar  eye;  and  the  chances  of 
superior  merit  in  a  great  and  populous  kingdom,  as  they  are 
proved  by  experience,  would  excuse  the  computation  of  im- 
aginary millions.  The  territories  of  Athens,  Sparta,  and  their 
allies  do  not  exceed  a  moderate  province  of  France  or  England; 
but  after  the  trophies  of  Salamis  and  Platsea,  they  expand  in 
our  fancy  to  the  gigantic  size  of  Asia,  which  had  been  trampled 
under  the  feet  of  the  victorious  Greeks.  But  the  subjects  of  the 
Byzantine  empire,  who  assume  and  dishonor  the  names  both 
of  Greeks  and  Romans,  present  a  dead  uniformity  of  abject 
vices,  which  are  neither  softened  by  the  weakness  of  humanity 
nor  animated  by  the  vigor  of  memorable  crimes.  The  freemen 
of  antiquity  might  repeat  with  generous  enthusiasm  the  sen- 
tence of  Homer,  "that  on  the  first  day  of  his  servitude  the  cap- 
tive is  deprived  of  one  half  of  his  manly  virtue."  But  the  poet 
had  only  seen  the  effects  of  civil  or  domestic  slavery,  nor  could 
he  foretell  that  the  second  moiety  of  manhood  must  be  annihi- 
lated by  the  spiritual  despotism,  which  shackles  not  only  the 
actions  but  even  the  thoughts  of  the  prostrate  votary.  By  this 
double  yoke  the  Greeks  were  oppressed  under  the  successors  of 


DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF  ROMAN  EMPIRE    539 

Heraclius;  the  tyrant,  a  law  of  eternal  justice,  was  degraded  by 
the  vices  of  his  subjects;  and  on  the  throne,  in  the  camp,  in  the 
schools,  we  search,  perhaps  with  fruitless  diligence,  the  names 
and  characters  that  may  deserve  to  be  rescued  from  oblivion. 
Nor  are  the  defects  of  the  subject  compensated  by  the  skill  and 
variety  of  the  painters.  Of  a  space  of  eight  hundred  years,  the 
four  first  centuries  are  overspread  with  a  cloud  interrupted  by 
some  faint  and  broken  rays  of  historic  light:  in  the  lives  of  the 
emperors,  from  Maurice  to  Alexius,  Basil  the  Macedonian  has 
alone  been  the  theme  of  a  separate  work;  and  the  absence,  or 
loss,  or  imperfection  of  contemporary  evidence  must  be  poorly 
supplied  by  the  doubtful  authority  of  more  recent  compilers. 
The  four  last  centuries  are  exempt  from  the  reproach  of  penury: 
and  with  the  Comnenian  family  the  historic  muse  of  Constanti- 
nople again  revives,  but  her  apparel  is  gaudy,  her  motions  are 
without  elegance  or  grace.  A  succession  of  priests  or  courtiers 
treads  in  each  other's  footsteps,  in  the  same  path  of  servitude 
and  superstition;  their  views  are  narrow,  their  judgment  is 
feeble  or  corrupt;  and  we  close  the  volume  of  copious  barren- 
ness, still  ignorant  of  the  causes  of  events,  the  characters  of  the 
actors,  and  the  manners  of  the  times  which  they  celebrate  or 
deplore.  The  observation  which  has  been  applied  to  a  man  may 
be  extended  to  a  whole  people,  that  the  energy  of  the  sword  is 
communicated  to  the  pen;  and  it  will  be  found  by  experience 
that  the  tone  of  history  will  rise  or  fall  with  the  spirit  of  the 
age. 

From  these  considerations  I  should  have  abandoned  without 
regret  the  Greek  slaves  and  their  servile  historians,  liad  I  not 
reflected  that  the  fate  of  the  Byzantine  monarchy  is  passively 
connected  with  the  most  splendid  and  important  revolutions 
which  have  changed  the  state  of  the  world.  The  space  of  the 
lost  provinces  was  immediately  replenished  with  new  colonies 
and  rising  kingdoms:  the  active  virtues  of  peace  and  war 
deserted  from  the  vanquished  to  the  victorious  nations;  and  it 
is  in  their  origin  and  conquests,  in  their  religion  and  govern- 
ment, that  we  must  explore  the  causes  and  effects  of  the  decline 
and  fall  of  the  Eastern  empire.  Nor  will  this  scope  of  narrative, 
the  riches  and  variety  of  these  materials,  be  incompatible  with 
the  unity  of  design  and  composition.  As,  in  his  daily  prayers, 
the  Mussulman  of  Fez  or  Delhi  still  turns  his  face  towards  the 


540  EDWARD  GIBBON 

Temple  of  Mecca,  the  historian's  eye  shall  be  always  fixed  on 
the  city  of  Constantinople.  The  excursive  line  may  embrace 
the  wilds  of  Arabia  and  Tartary,  but  the  circle  will  be  ulti- 
mately reduced  to  the  decreasing  limit  of  the  Roman  mon- 
archy. 

On  this  principle  I  shall  now  establish  the  plan  of  the  last 
two  volumes  of  the  present  work.  The  first  chapter  will  contain, 
in  a  regular  series,  the  emperors  who  reigned  at  Constantinople 
during  a  period  of  six  hundred  years,  from  the  days  of  Heraclius 
to  the  Latin  conquest:  a  rapid  abstract,  which  may  be  sup- 
ported by  a  general  appeal  to  the  order  and  text  of  the  original 
historians.  In  this  introduction  I  shall  confine  myself  to  the 
revolutions  of  the  throne,  the  succession  of  families,  the  per- 
sonal characters  of  the  Greek  princes,  the  mode  of  their  life  and 
death,  the  maxims  and  influence  of  their  domestic  government, 
and  the  tendency  of  their  reign  to  accelerate  or  suspend  the 
downfall  of  the  Eastern  empire.  Such  a  chronological  review 
will  serve  to  illustrate  the  various  argument  of  the  subsequent 
chapters;  and  each  circumstance  of  the  eventful  story  of  the 
barbarians  will  adapt  itself  in  a  proper  place  to  the  Byzantine 
annals.  The  internal  state  of  the  empire,  and  the  dangerous 
heresy  of  the  Paulicians,  which  shook  the  East  and  enlightened 
the  West,  will  be  the  subject  of  two  separate  chapters;  but 
these  inquiries  must  be  postponed  till  our  farther  progress  shall 
have  opened  the  view  of  the  world  in  the  ninth  and  tenth  cen- 
turies of  the  Christian  era.  After  this  foundation  of  Byzantine 
history,  the  following  nations  will  pass  before  our  eyes,  and  each 
will  occupy  the  space  to  which  it  may  be  entitled  by  greatness 
or  merit,  or  the  degree  of  connection  with  the  Roman  world 
and  the  present  age.  I,  The  FRANKS;  a  general  appellation 
which  includes  all  the  barbarians  of  France,  Italy,  and  Ger- 
many, who  were  united  by  the  sword  and  sceptre  of  Charle- 
magne. The  persecution  of  images  and  their  votaries  separated 
Rome  and  Italy  from  the  Byzantine  throne,  and  prepared  the 
restoration  of  the  Roman  empire  in  the  West.  II,  The  ARABS 
or  SARACENS.  Three  ample  chapters  will  be  devoted  to  this 
curious  and  interesting  object.  In  the  first,  after  a  picture  of 
the  country  and  its  inhabitants,  I  shall  investigate  the  charac- 
ter of  Mahomet;  the  character,  religion,  and  success  of  the 
prophet.  In  the  second  I  shall  lead  the  Arabs  to  the  conquest 


DECLINE  AND   FALL   OF  ROMAN  EMPIRE    541 

of  Syria,  Egypt,  and  Africa,  the  provinces  of  the  Roman 
empire;  nor  can  I  check  their  victorious  career  till  they  have 
overthrown  the  monarchies  of  Persia  and  Spain.  In  the  third 
I  shall  inquire  how  Constantinople  and  Europe  were  saved  by 
the  luxury  and  arts,  the  division  and  decay,  of  the  empire  of  the 
caliphs.  A  single  chapter  will  include  —  III,  The  BULGARIANS, 
IV,  HUNGARIANS,  and,  V,  RUSSIANS,  who  assaulted  by  sea  or 
by  land  the  provinces  and  the  capital;  but  the  last  of  these,  vo 
important  in  their  present  greatness,  will  excite  some  curiosity 
in  their  origin  and  infancy.  VI,  The  NORMANS;  or  rather  the 
private  adventures  of  that  warlike  people,  who  founded  a  power- 
ful kingdom  in  Apulia  and  Sicily,  shook  the  throne  of  Constan- 
tinople, displayed  the  trophies  of  chivalry,  and  almost  realized 
the  wonders  of  romance.  VII,  The  LATINS;  the  subjects  of  the 
Pope,  the  nations  of  the  West,  who  enlisted  under  the  banner 
of  the  cross  for  the  recovery  or  relief  of  the  holy  sepulchre.  The 
Greek  emperors  were  terrified  and  preserved  by  the  myriads  of 
pilgrims  who  marched  to  Jerusalem  with  Godfrey  of  Bouillon 
and  the  peers  of  Christendom.  The  second  and  third  crusades 
trod  in  the  footsteps  of  the  first:  Asia  and  Europe  were  mingled 
in  a  sacred  war  of  two  hundred  years;  and  the  Christian  powers 
were  bravely  resisted  and  finally  expelled  by  Saladin  and  the 
Mamelukes  of  Egypt.  In  these  memorable  crusades  a  fleet  and 
army  of  French  and  Venetians  were  diverted  from  Syria  to  the 
Thracian  Bosphorus:  they  assaulted  the  capital,  they  sub- 
verted the  Greek  monarchy;  and  a  dynasty  of  Latin  princes 
was  seated  near  three-score  years  on  the  throne  of  Constantine. 
VIII,  The  GREEKS  themselves,  during  this  period  of  captivity 
and  exile,  must  be  considered  as  a  foreign  nation ;  the  enemies, 
and  again  the  sovereigns,  of  Constantinople.  Misfortune  had 
rekindled  a  spark  of  national  virtue,  and  the  imperial  series  may 
be  continued  with  some  dignity  from  their  restoration  to  the 
Turkish  conquest.  IX,  The  MOGULS  and  TARTARS.  By  the 
arms  of  Zingis  and  his  descendants,  the  globe  was  shaken  from 
China  to  Poland  and  Greece;  the  sultans  were  overthrown;  the 
caliphs  fell,  and  the  Cssars  trembled  on  their  throne.  The  vic- 
tories of  Timour  suspended  above  fifty  years  the  final  ruin  of 
the  Byzantine  empire.  X.  I  have  already  noticed  the  first 
appearance  of  the  TURKS;  and  the  names  of  the  fathers,  of 
Seljuk  and  Othman,  discriminate  the  two  successive  dynasties 


542  EDWARD   GIBBON 

of  the  nation  which  emerged  in  the  eleventh  century  from  the 
Scythian  wilderness.  The  former  established  a  potent  and 
splendid  kingdom  from  the  banks  of  the  Oxus  to  Antioch  and 
Nice,  and  the  first  crusade  was  provoked  by  the  violation  of 
Jerusalem  and  the  danger  of  Constantinople.  From  an  humble 
origin  the  Ottomans  arose  the  scourge  and  terror  of  Christen- 
dom. Constantinople  was  besieged  and  taken  by  Mahomet  II, 
and  his  triumph  annihilates  the  remnant,  the  image,  the  title, 
of  the  Roman  empire  in  the  East.  The  schism  of  the  Greeks 
will  be  connected  with  their  last  calamities  and  the  restoration 
)f  learning  in  the  Western  world.  I  shall  return  from  the  cap- 
tivity of  the  new  to  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome ;  and  the  vener- 
able name,  the  interesting  theme,  will  shed  a  ray  of  glory  on  the 
conclusion  of  my  labors.  .  .  . 

MEMOIRS  OF  MY  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 

1796 

[These  Memoirs  appeared  in  the  Miscellaneous  Works  of  Gibbon,  edited 
by  his  friend  Lord  Sheffield,  two  years  after  his  death.  Sheffield  spoke  of 
them  as  "a  work  which  he  seems  to  have  projected  with  peculiar  solici- 
tude and  attention,  and  of  which  he  left  six  different  sketches,  all  in  his 
own  handwriting.  One  of  these  .  .  .  ends  at  the  time  when  he  quitted 
Oxford;  another  at  the  year  1764,  when  he  traveled  to  Italy;  a  third,  at 
his  father's  death  in  1770.  A  fourth,  which  he  continued  to  a  short  time 
after  his  return  to  Lausanne  in  1788,  appears  in  the  form  of  annals,  much 
less  detailed  than  the  others.  The  two  remaining  sketches  are  still  more 
imperfect.  It  is  difficult  to  discover  the  order  in  which  these  several 
pieces  were  written,  but  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  most  copious 
was  the  last.  From  all  these  the  following  Memoirs  have  been  carefully 
selected  and  put  together."  The  allusion  in  the  third  of  the  extracts  that 
follow  is  to  the  controversy  aroused  by  the  isth  and  i6th  chapters  of  the 
first  volume  of  the  History,  in  which  Gibbon  undertook  to  explain  the 
growth  of  Christianity  from  a  rationalistic  standpoint.  The  passages  here 
reprinted  will  be  found  in  Dr.  Birkbeck  Hill's  edition  of  the  Memoirs, 
pages  50-59,  167,  201-205,  224-225,  239-244.! 

To  the  University  of  Oxford  I  acknowledge  no  obligation; 
and  she  will  as  cheerfully  renounce  me  for  a  son  as  I  am  will- 
ing to  disclaim  her  for  a  mother.  I  spent  fourteen  months 
at  Magdalen  College;  they  proved  the  fourteen  months  the 
most  idle  and  unprofitable  of  my  whole  life.  The  reader  will 
pronounce  between  the  school  and  the  scholar;  but  I  cannot 


MEMOIRS  543 

affect  to  believe  that  Nature  had  disqualified  me  for  all  literary 
pursuits.  The  specious  and  ready  excuse  of  my  tender  age, 
imperfect  preparation,  and  hasty  departure  may  doubtless  b/ 
alleged,  nor  do  I  wish  to  defraud  such  excuses  of  their  propel 
weight.  Yet  in  my  sixteenth  year  I  was  not  devoid  of  capacity 
or  application;  even  my  childish  reading  had  displayed  an  early 
though  blind  propensity  for  books;  and  the  shallow  flood  might 
have  been  taught  to  flow  in  a  deep  channel  and  a  clear  stream. 
In  the  discipline  of  a  well-constituted  academy,  under  the  guid- 
ance of  skillful  and  vigilant  professors,  I  should  gradually  have 
risen  from  translations  to  originals,  from  the  Latin  to  the  Greek 
classics,  from  dead  languages  to  living  science;  my  hours  would 
have  been  occupied  by  useful  and  agreeable  studies,  the  wan- 
derings of  fancy  would  have  been  restrained,  and  I  should  have 
escaped  the  temptations  of  idleness  which  finally  precipitated 
my  departure  from  Oxford. 

Perhaps  in  a  separate  annotation  I  may  coolly  examine  the 
fabulous  and  real  antiquities  of  our  sister  universities,  a  ques- 
tion which  has  kindled  such  fierce  and  foolish  disputes  among 
their  fanatic  sons.  In  the  meanwhile  it  will  be  acknowledged 
that  these  venerable  bodies  are  sufficiently  old  to  partake  of 
all  the  prejudices  and  infirmities  of  age.  The  schools  of  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  were  founded  in  a  dark  age  of  false  and  barbar- 
ous science,  and  they  are  still  tainted  with  the  vices  of  their 
origin.  Their  primitive  discipline  was  adapted  to  the  educa- 
tion of  priests  and  monks,  and  the  government  still  remains  in 
the  hands  of  the  clergy,  an  order  of  men  whose  manners  are 
remote  from  the  present  world,  and  whose  eyes  are  dazzled  by 
the  light  of  philosophy.  The  legal  incorporation  of  these  socie- 
ties by  the  charters  of  popes  and  kings  had  given  them  a  mo- 
nopoly of  the  public  instruction,  and  the  spirit  of  monopolists 
is  narrow,  lazy,  and  oppressive;  their  work  is  more  costly  and 
less  productive  than  that  of  independent  artists,  and  the  new 
improvements  so  eagerly  grasped  by  the  competition  of  freedom 
are  admitted  with  slow  and  sullen  reluctance  in  those  proud 
corporations,  above  the  fear  of  a  rival  and  below  the  confession 
of  an  error.  We  may  scarcely  hope  that  any  reformation  will  be 
a  voluntary  act;  and  so  deeply  rooted  are  they  in  law  and  pre- 
judice, that  even  the  omnipotence  of  Parliament  would  shrink 
from  an  inquiry  into  the  state  and  abuses  of  the  two  universi- 
ties. , 


544  EDWARD   GIBBON 

In  all  the  universities  of  Europe,  excepting  our  own,  the  lan- 
guages and  sciences  are  distributed  among  a  numerous  list  of 
effective  professors;  the  students,  according  to  their  taste,  their 
calling,  and  their  diligence,  apply  themselves  to  the  proper 
masters ;  and  in  the  annual  repetition  of  public  and  private  lec- 
tures these  masters  are  assiduously  employed.  Our  curiosity 
may  inquire  what  number  of  professors  has  been  instituted  at 
Oxford  (for  I  shall  now  confine  myself  to  my  own  university). 
By  whom  are  they  appointed,  and  what  may  be  the  probable 
chances  of  merit  or  incapacity?  How  many  are  stationed  to 
the  three  faculties,  and  how  many  are  left  for  the  liberal  arts? 
What  is  the  form,  and  what  the  substance,  of  their  lessons? 
But  all  these  questions  are  silenced  by  one  short  and  singular 
answer:  that  in  the  University  of  Oxford  the  greater  part  of  the 
public  professors  have  for  these  many  years  given  up  altogether 
even  the  pretence  of  teaching.  .  .  . 

The  fellows  or  monks  of  my  time  were  decent,  easy  men,  who 
supinely  enjoyed  the  gifts  of  the  founder.  Their  days  were 
filled  by  a  series  of  uniform  employments;  the  chapel  and  the 
hall,  the  coffee-house  and  the  common  room,  till  they  retired, 
weary  and  well  satisfied,  to  a  long  slumber.  From  the  toil  of 
reading,  or  thinking,  or  writing,  they  had  absolved  their  con- 
science, and  the  first  shoots  of  learning  and  ingenuity  withered 
on  the  ground,  without  yielding  any  fruits  to  the  owners  or  the 
public.  As  a  gentleman-commoner,  I  was  admitted  to  the  so- 
ciety of  the  fellows,  and  fondly  expected  that  some  questions  of 
literature  would  be  the  amusing  and  instructive  topics  of  their 
discourse.  Their  conversation  stagnated  in  a  round  of  college 
business,  Tory  politics,  personal  anecdotes,  and  private  scan- 
dal; their  dull  and  deep  potations  excused  the  brisk  intemper- 
ance of  youth ;  and  their  constitutional  toasts  were  not  expres- 
sive of  the  most  lively  loyalty  for  the  house  of  Hanover.  .  .  . 
The  example  of  the  senior  fellows  could  not  inspire  the  under- 
graduates with  a  liberal  spirit  or  studious  emulation;  and  I  can- 
not describe,  as  I  never  knew,  the  discipline  of  college.  Some 
duties  may  possibly  have  been  imposed  on  the  poor  scholars 
whose  ambition  aspired  to  the  peaceful  honors  of  a  fellowship 
(ascribi  quietis  ordinibus  .  .  .  deorum),1  but  no  independent 
members  were  admitted  below  the  rank  of  a  gentleman-corn- 

1  "To  be  enrolled  in  the  peaceful  ranks  of  the  gods." 


MEMOIRS  S4S 

moner,  and  our  velvet  cap  was  the  cap  of  liberty.  A  tradition 
prevailed  that  some  of  our  predecessors  had  spoken  Latin  de- 
clamations in  the  hall,  but  of  this  ancient  custom  no  vestige 
remained.  The  obvious  methods  of  public  exercises  and  exam- 
inations were  totally  unknown,  and  I  have  never  heard  that 
either  the  president  or  the  society  interfered  in  the  private 
economy  of  the  tutors  and  their  pupils.  .  .  . 

It  was  at  Rome,  on  the  i5th  of  October,  1764,  as  I  sat  musing 
amidst  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol,  while  the  barefooted  friars  were 
singing  vespers  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  that  the  idea  of 
writing  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  city  first  started  to  my  mind. 
But  my  original  plan  was  circumscribed  to  the  decay  of  the 
city  rather  than  the  empire;  and  though  my  reading  and  re- 
flections began  to  point  towards  that  object,  some  years  elapsed, 
and  several  avocations  intervened,  before  I  was  seriously  en- 
gaged in  the  execution  of  that  laborious  work. 

.  .  .  Had  I  believed  that  the  majority  of  English  readers 
were  so  fondly  attached  even  to  the  name  and  shadow  of  Chris- 
tianity, —  had  I  foreseen  that  the  pious,  the  timid,  and  the 
prudent  would  feel,  or  affect  to  feel,  with  such  exquisite  sensi- 
bility—  I  might  perhaps  have  softened  the  two  invidious  chap- 
ters, which  would  create  many  enemies  and  conciliate  few 
friends.  But  the  shaft  was  shot,  the  alarm  was  sounded,  and  I 
could  only  rejoice  that,  if  the  voice  of  our  priests  was  clamorous 
and  bitter,  their  hands  were  disarmed  from  the  powers  of  per- 
secution. I  adhered  to  the  wise  resolution  of  trusting  myself 
and  my  writings  to  the  candor  of  the  public,  till  Mr.  Davies  of 
Oxford  presumed  to  attack,  not  the  faith,  but  the  fidelity  of  the 
historian.  My  Vindication,  expressive  of  less  anger  than  con- 
tempt, amused  for  a  moment  the  busy  and  idle  metropolis,  and 
the  most  rational  part  of  the  laity,  and  even  of  the  clergy,  ap- 
pear to  have  been  satisfied  of  my  innocence  and  accuracy.  I 
would  not  print  this  Vindication  in  quarto,  lest  it  should  be 
bound  and  preserved  with  the  History  itself.  At  the  distance 
of  twelve  years,  I  calmly  affirm  my  judgment  of  Davies,  Chel- 
sum,  etc.  A  victory  over  such  antagonists  was  a  sufficient 
humiliation.  They,  however,  were  rewarded  in  this  world. 
Poor  Cheisum  was  indeed  neglected,  and  I  dare  not  boast  the 


?46  EDWARD   GIBBOIsl 

making  Dr.  Watson  a  bishop,  —  he  is  a  prelate  of  a  large 
mind  and  liberal  spirit;  but  I  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  giving 
a  royal  pension  to  Mr.  Davies,  and  of  collating  Dr.  Ap- 
thorpe  to  an  archi-episcopal  living.  Their  success  encouraged 
the  zeal  of  Taylor  the  Arian  and  Milner  the  Methodist,  with 
many  others  whom  it  would  be  difficult  to  remember  and  tedi- 
ous to  rehearse.  The  list  of  my  adversaries,  however,  was 
graced  with  the  more  respectable  names  of  Dr.  Priestley,  Sir 
David  Dalrymple,  and  Dr.  White;  and  every  polemic  of  either 
university  discharged  his  sermon  or  pamphlet  against  the  im- 
penetrable silence  of  the  Roman  historian.  .  .  .  I  have  praised, 
and  I  still  praise,  the  eloquent  sermons  which  were  preached  in 
St.  Mary's  pulpit  at  Oxford  by  Dr.  White.  If  he  assaulted  me 
with  some  degree  of  illiberal  acrimony,  in  such  a  place  and  be- 
fore such  an  audience  he  was  obliged  to  speak  the  language  of 
the  country.  I  smiled  at  a  passage  in  one  of  his  private  letters 
to  Mr.  Bad  cock:  "The  part  where  we  encounter  Gibbon  must 
be  brilliant  and  striking."  In  a  sermon  preached  before  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  Dr.  Edwards  complimented  a  work 
"which  can  only  perish  with  the  language  itself,"  and  esteems 
the  author  a  formidable  enemy.  He  is,  indeed,  astonished  that 
more  learning  and  ingenuity  has  not  been  shown  in  the  defense 
of  Israel;  that  the  prelates  and  dignitaries  of  the  Church  (alas, 
good  man !)  did  not  vie  with  each  other  whose  stone  should  sink 
deepest  in  the  forehead  of  this  Goliah.  .  .  .  Let  me  frankly 
own  that  I  was  startled  at  the  first  discharge  of  ecclesiastical 
ordnance ;  but  as  soon  as  I  found  that  this  empty  noise  was  mis- 
chievous only  in  the  intention,  my  fear  was  converted  into  in- 
dignation, and  every  feeling  of  indignation  or  curiosity  has 
long  since  subsided  in  pure  and  placid  indifference. 

...  I  have  presumed  to  mark  the  moment  of  conception: 
I  shall  now  commemorate  the  hour  of  my  final  deliverance.  It 
was  on  the  day,  or  rather  night,  of  the  2yth  of  June,  1787,  be- 
tween the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  that  I  wrote  the  last 
lines  of  the  last  page  in  a  summer-house  in  my  garden.  After 
laying  down  my  pen,  I  took  several  turns  in  a  berceau,  or  cov- 
ered walk  of  acacias,  which  commands  a  prospect  of  the  coun- 
try, the  lake,  and  the  mountains.  The  air  was  temperate,  the 
sky  was  serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  moon  was  reflected  from 


MEMOIRS  547 

the  waters,  and  all  nature  was  silent.  I  will  not  dissemble  the 
first  emotions  of  joy  on  the  recovery  of  my  freedom,  and  per- 
haps the  establishment  of  my  fame.  But  my  pride  was  sooir. 
humbled,  and  a  sober  melancholy  was  spread  over  my  mind,  by 
the  idea  that  I  had  taken  an  everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and 
agreeable  companion,  and  that,  whatsoever  might  be  the  future 
date  of  my  History,  the  life  of  the  historian  must  be  short  and 
precarious.  I  will  add  two  facts  which  have  seldom  occurred 
in  the  composition  of  six,  or  at  least  of  five,  quartos,  i.  My 
first  rough  manuscript,  without  any  intermediate  copy,  has 
been  sent  to  the  press.  2.  Not  a  sheet  has  been  seen  by  any 
human  eyes,  excepting  those  of  the  author  and  the  printer. 
The  faults  and  the  merits  are  exclusively  my  own. 

.  .  .  When  I  contemplate  the  common  lot  of  mortality,  I 
must  acknowledge  that  I  have  drawn  a  high  prize  in  the  lottery 
of  life.  The  far  greater  part  of  the  globe  is  overspread  with  bar- 
barism or  slavery.  In  the  civilized  world  the  most  numerous 
class  is  condemned  to  ignorance  and  poverty;  and  the  double 
fortune  of  my  birth  in  a  free  and  enlightened  country,  in  an 
honorable  and  wealthy  family,  is  the  lucky  chance  of  an  unit 
against  millions.  The  general  probability  is  about  three  to  one 
that  a  new-born  infant  will  not  live  to  complete  his  fiftieth 
year.  I  have  now  passed  that  age,  and  may  fairly  estimate  the 
present  value  of  my  existence  in  the  threefold  division  of  mind, 
body,  and  estate. 

i.  The  first  and  indispensable  requisite  of  happiness  is  a 
clear  conscience,  unsullied  by  the  reproach  or  remembrance  of 
an  unworthy  action. 

Hie  murus  aheneus  esto, 
NU  conscire  sibi,  nulla  pallescere  culpa.1 

I  am  endowed  with  a  cheerful  temper,  a  moderate  sensibility, 
and  a  natural  disposition  to  repose  rather  than  to  activity; 
some  mischievous  appetites  and  habits  have  perhaps  been 
corrected  by  philosophy  or  time.  The  love  of  study,  a  passion 
which  derives  fresh  vigor  from  enjoyment,  supplies  each  day, 
each  hour,  with  a  perpetual  source  of  independent  and  ra- 

i  "  This  DC  one'?  brazen  wall,  to  fee!  no  consciousness  of  guilt,  nor  grow  pale  through 
misconduct." 


548  EDWARD   GIBBON 

tional  pleasure,  and  I  am  not  sensible  of  any  decay  of  the  men- 
tal faculties.  The  original  soil  has  been  highly  improved  by 
cultivation ;  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether  some  flowers  of 
fancy,  some  grateful  errors,  have  not  been  eradicated  with  the 
roots  of  prejudice.  2.  Since  I  have  escaped  from  the  long  perils 
of  my  childhood,  the  serious  advice  of  a  physician  has  seldom 
been  requisite.  "The  madness  of  superfluous  health  "  I  have 
never  known ;  but  my  tender  constitution  has  been  fortified  by 
time,  and  the  inestimable  gift  of  the  sound  and  peaceful  slum- 
bers of  infancy  may  be  imputed  both  to  the  mind  and  the  body. 
3. 1  have  already  described  the  merits  of  my  society  and  situa- 
tion; but  these  enjoyments  would  be  tasteless  or  bitter  if  their 
possession  were  not  assured  by  an  annual  and  adequate  supply. 
According  to  the  scale  of  Switzerland  I  am  a  rich  man;  and  I 
am  indeed  rich,  since  my  income  is  superior  to  my  expense,  and 
my  expense  is  equal  to  my  wishes.  My  friend  Lord  Sheffield 
has  kindly  relieved  me  from  the  cares  to  which  my  taste  and 
temper  are  most  adverse ;  shall  I  add,  that  since  the  failure  of  my 
first  wishes  I  have  never  entertained  any  serious  thoughts  of  a 
matrimonial  connection?  .  .  . 

The  present  is  a  fleeting  moment,  the  past  is  no  more,  and 
our  prospect  of  futurity  is  dark  and  doubtful.  This  day  may 
possibly  be  my  last ;  but  the  laws  of  probability,  so  true  in  gen- 
eral, so  fallacious  in  particular,  still  allow  about  fifteen  years. 
I  shall  soon  enter  into  the  period  which,  as  the  most  agreeable 
of  his  long  life,  was  selected  by  the  judgment  and  experience  of 
the  sage  Fontenelle.  His  choice  is  approved  by  the  eloquent 
historian  of  nature,1  who  fixes  our  moral  happiness  to  the  ma- 
ture season  in  which  our  passions  are  supposed  to  be  calmed, 
our  duties  fulfilled,  our  ambition  satisfied,  our  fame  and  fortune 
established  on  a  solid  basis.  In  private  conversation  that  great 
and  amiable  man  added  the  weight  of  his  own  experience;  and 
this  autumnal  felicity  might  be  exemplified  in  the  lives  of  Vol- 
taire, Hume,  and  many  other  men  of  letters.  I  am  far  more 
inclined  to  embrace  than  to  dispute  this  comfortable  doctrine. 
I  will  not  suppose  any  premature  decay  of  the  mind  or  body; 
but  I  must  reluctantly  observe  that  two  causes,  the  abbrevia- 
tion of  time  and  the  failure  of  hope,  will  always  tinge  with  a 
orowner  shade  the  evening  of  life. 

1  Buffon. 


MEMOIRS  549 

The  proportion  of  a  part  to  the  whole  is  the  only  standard  by 
which  we  can  measure  the  length  of  our  existence.  At  the  age 
of  twenty,  one  year  is  a  tenth,  perhaps,  of  the  time  which  has 
elapsed  within  our  consciousness  and  memory;  at  the  age  of 
fifty  it  is  no  more  than  the  fortieth,  and  this  relative  value  con- 
tinues to  decrease  till  the  last  sands  are  shaken  by  the  hand  of 
death.  This  reasoning  may  seem  metaphysical;  but  on  a  trial 
it  will  be  found  satisfactory  and  just.  The  warm  desires,  the 
long  expectations  of  youth,  are  founded  on  the  ignorance  of 
themselves  and  the  world;  they  are  gradually  damped  by  time 
and  experience,  by  disappointment  or  possession;  and  after  the 
middle  season  the  crowd  must  be  content  to  remain  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  while  the  few  who  have  climbed  the  summit 
aspire  to  descend  or  expect  to  fall.  In  old  age,  the  consolation 
of  hope  is  reserved  for  the  tenderness  of  parents,  who  com- 
mence a  new  life  in  their  children,  the  faith  of  enthusiasts  who 
sing  hallelujahs  above  the  clouds,  and  the  vanity  of  authors 
who  presume  the  immortality  of  their  name  and  writings. 


GILBERT  WHITE 

THE   NATURAL    HISTORY   AND   ANTIQUITIES   OF 

SELBORNE 

1789 

[This  book,  "the  only  work  on  natural  history  which  has  attained  the 
rank  of  an  English  classic,"  had  its  origin  in  White's  correspondence  with 
other  students  of  zoology,  especially  Thomas  Pennant  and  Daines  Bar- 
rington.  The  extracts  that  follow  are  from  Letters  xvi,  xxii,  XL,  to  Pen- 
nant, and  Letters  xin,  xxxvm,  XLIII,  L  to  Barrington.] 

April  18,  1768. 

.  .  .  I  MAKE  no  doubt  but  there  are  three  species  of  the  willow- 
wrens;  two  I  know  perfectly,  but  have  not  been  able  yet  to  pro- 
cure the  third.  No  two  birds  can  differ  more  in  their  notes,  and 
that  constantly,  than  those  two  that  I  am  acquainted  with;  for 
the  one  has  a  joyous,  easy,  laughing  note,  the  other  a  harsh, 
loud  chirp.  The  former  is  every  way  larger,  and  three-quarters 
of  an  inch  longer,  and  weighs  two  drachms  and  a  half,  while  the 
latter  weighs  but  two ;  so  the  songster  is  one-fifth  heavier  than 
the  chirper.  The  chirper  (being  the  first  summer  bird  of  passage 
that  is  heard,  the  wryneck  sometimes  excepted)  begins  his  two 
notes  in  the  middle  of  March,  and  continues  them  through  the 
spring  and  summer  till  the  end  of  August,  as  appears  by  my 
journals.  The  legs  of  the  larger  of  these  two  are  flesh-colored; 
of  the  less,  black. 

The  grasshopper-lark  began  his  sibilous  note  in  my  fields  last 
Saturday.  Nothing  can  be  more  amusing  than  the  whisper  of 
this  little  bird,  which  seems  to  be  close  by  though  at  a  hundred 
yards  distance,  and  when  close  at  your  ear  is  scarce  any  louder 
than  when  a  great  way  off.  Had  I  not  been  a  little  acquainted 
with  insects,  and  known  that  the  grasshopper  kind  is  not  yet 
hatched,  I  should  have  hardly  believed  but  that  it  had  been  a 
locusta  whispering  in  the  bushes.  The  country  people  laugh 
when  you  tell  them  that  it  is  the  note  of  a  bird.  It  is  a  most  art- 
ful creature,  skulking  in  the  thickest  part  of  a  bush,  and  will 
sing  at  a  yard  distance,  provided  it  be  concealed.  .  .  . 


SELBORNE  551 

January  2,  1769. 

.  .  .  There  is  no  bird,  I  believe,  whose  manners  I  have  studied 
more  than  that  of  the  caprimulgus  (the  goat-sucker),  as  it  is  a 
wonderful  and  curious  creature;  but  I  have  always  found  that, 
though  sometimes  it  may  chatter  as  it  flies,  as  I  know  it  does, 
yet  in  general  it  utters  its  jarring  note  sitting  on  a  bough;  and 
I  have  for  many  a  half-hour  watched  it  as  it  sat  with  its  under 
mandible  quivering,  and  particularly  this  summer.  It  perches 
usually  on  a  bare  twig,  with  its  head  lower  than  its  tail,  in  an 
attitude  well  expressed  by  your  draughtsman  in  the  folio  Brit- 
ish Zoology.  This  bird  is  most  punctual  in  beginning  its  song 
exactly  at  the  close  of  day,  —  so  exactly  that  I  have  known  it 
strike  up  more  than  once  or  twice  just  at  the  report  of  the  Ports- 
mouth evening  gun,  which  we  can  hear  when  the  weather  is 
still.  It  appears  to  me  past  all  doubt  that  its  notes  are  formed 
by  organic  impulse,  by  the  powers  of  the  parts  of  its  windpipe 
formed  for  sound,  just  as  cats  purr.  You  will  credit  me,  I  hope, 
when  I  assure  you  that,  as  my  neighbors  were  assembled  in  an 
hermitage  on  the  side  of  a  steep  hill  where  we  drink  tea,  one  of 
these  churn-owls  came  and  settled  on  the  cross  of  that  little 
straw  edifice  and  began  to  chatter,  and  continued  his  note  for 
many  minutes;  and  we  were  all  struck  with  wonder  to  find  that 
the  organs  of  that  little  animal,  when  put  in  motion,  gave  a 
sensible  vibration  to  the  whole  building!  .  .  . 

September  2,  1774. 

.  .  .  The  note  of  the  white-throat,  which  is  continually  re- 
peated, and  often  attended  with  odd  gesticulations  on  the  wing, 
is  harsh  and  displeasing.  These  birds  seem  of  a  pugnacious  dis- 
position; for  they  sing  with  an  erected  crest,  and  attitudes  of 
rivalry  and  defiance;  are  shy  and  wild  in  breeding-time,  avoid- 
ing neighborhoods,  and  haunting  lonely  lanes  and  commons, 
-  nay,  even  the  very  tops  of  the  Sussex  downs,  where  there  are 
bushes  and  covert.  But  in  July  and  August  they  bring  their 
broods  into  gardens  and  orchards,  and  make  great  havoc 
among  the  summer  fruits. 

The  black-cap  has  in  common  a  full,  sweet,  deep,  loud,  and 
wild  pipe;  yet  that  strain  is  of  short  continuance,  and  his  mo- 
tions are  desultory.  But  when  that  bird  sits  calmly,  and  en- 
gages in  song  in  earnest,  he  pours  forth  very  sweet  but  inward 


552  GILBERT  WHITE 

melody,  and  expresses  great  variety  of  soft  and  gentle  modula- 
tions, superior  perhaps  to  those  of  any  of  our  warblers,  the 
nightingale  excepted.  Black-caps  mostly  haunt  orchards  and 
gardens;  while  they  warble  their  throats  are  wonderfully  dis- 
tended. 

The  song  of  the  redstart  is  superior,  though  somewhat  like 
that  of  the  white-throat ;  some  birds  have  a  few  more  notes  than 
others.  Sitting  very  placidly  on  the  top  of  a  tall  tree  in  a  village, 
the  cock  sings  from  morning  to  night;  he  affects  neighborhoods, 
and  avoids  solitude,  and  loves  to  build  in  orchards  and  about 
houses.  With  us  he  perches  on  the  vane  of  a  tall  maypole  .  .  . 

April  12,  1772. 

While  I  was  in  Sussex  last  autumn  my  residence  was  at  the 
village  near  Lewes,  from  whence  I  had  formerly  the  pleasure  of 
writing  to  you.  On  the  ist  November  I  remarked  that  the  old 
tortoise,  formerly  mentioned,  began  first  to  dig  the  ground  in 
order  to  the  forming  its  hybernaculum,  which  it  had  fixed  on 
just  beside  a  great  tuft  of  hepaticas.  It  scrapes  out  the  ground 
with  its  fore-feet,  and  throws  it  up  over  its  back  with  its  hind; 
but  the  motion  of  its  legs  is  ridiculously  slow,  little  exceeding 
the  hour-hand  of  a  clock.  Nothing  can  be  more  assiduous  than 
this  creature  night  and  day  in  scooping  the  earth,  and  forcing 
its  great  body  into  the  cavity;  but,  as  the  noons  of  that  sea- 
son proved  unusually  warm  and  sunny,  it  was  continually  inter- 
rupted, and  called  forth  by  the  heat  in  the  middle  of  the  day; 
and  though  I  continued  there  till  the  i3th  November,  yet  the 
work  remained  unfinished.  Harsher  weather,  and  frosty  morn- 
ings, would  have  quickened  its  operations. 

No  part  of  its  behavior  ever  struck  me  more  than  the  ex- 
treme timidity  it  always  expresses  with  regard  to  rain;  for, 
though  it  has  a  shell  that  would  secure  it  against  the  wheel  of  a 
loaded  cart,  yet  does  it  discover  as  much  solicitude  about  rain 
as  a  lady  dressed  in  all  her  best  attire,  shuffling  away  on  the  first 
sprinklings,  and  running  its  head  up  in  a  corner.  If  attended  to, 
it  becomes  an  excellent  weather-glass;  for  as  sure  as  it  walks 
elate,  and  as  it  were  on  tiptoe,  feeding  with  great  earnestness  in 
a  morning,  so  sure  will  it  rain  before  night.  It  is  totally  a  diur- 
nal animal,  and  never  pretends  to  stir  after  it  becomes  dark. 
...  I  was  much  taken  with  its  sagacity  in  discerning  those 


SELBORNE  553 

that  do  it  kind  offices;  for,  as  soon  as  the  good  old  lady  comes 
in  sight  who  has  waited  on  it  for  more  than  thirty  years,  it 
hobbles  towards  its  benefactress  with  awkward  alacrity,  but 
remains  inattentive  to  strangers.  Thus  not  only  "  the  ox  know- 
eth  his  owner,  and  the  ass  his  master's  crib,"  but  the  most 
abject  reptile  and  torpid  of  beings  distinguishes  the  hand  that 
feeds  it,  and  is  touched  with  the  feelings  of  gratitude. 

In  about  three  days  after  I  left  Sussex,  the  tortoise  retired 
into  the  ground  under  the  hepatica. 

February  12,  1778. 

In  a  district  so  diversified  as  this,  so  full  of  hollow  vales  and 
hanging  woods,  it  is  no  wonder  that  echoes  should  abound. 
Many  we  have  discovered  that  return  the  cry  of  a  pack  of  dogs, 
the  notes  of  a  hunting-horn,  a  tunable  ring  of  bells,  or  the 
melody  of  birds,  very  agreeably.  But  we  were  still  at  a  loss  for  a 
polysyllabical  articulate  echo,  till  a  young  gentleman,  who  had 
parted  from  his  company  in  a  summer  evening  walk,  and  was 
calling  after  them,  stumbled  upon  a  very  curious  one  in  a  spot 
where  it  might  least  be  expected.  At  first  he  was  much  sur- 
prised, and  could  not  be  persuaded  but  that  he  was  mocked  by 
some  boy;  but  repeating  his  trials  in  several  languages,  and 
finding  his  respondent  to  be  a  very  adroit  polyglot,  he  then 
discerned  the  deception. 

This  echo  in  an  evening,  before  rural  noises  cease,  would 
repeat  ten  syllables  most  articulately  and  distinctly,  especially 
if  quick  dactyls  were  chosen.  The  last  syllables  of 

Tityre,  tu  patula  recubans  — 

were  as  audibly  and  intelligibly  returned  as  the  first;  and  therq 
is  no  doubt,  could  trial  have  been  made,  but  that  at  midnight, 
when  the  air  is  very  elastic,  and  a  dead  stillness  prevails,  one  or 
two  syllables  more  might  have  been  obtained;  but  the  distance 
rendered  so  late  an  experiment  very  inconvenient. 

Quick  dactyls,  we  observed,  succeeded  best;  for  when  we 
came  to  try  its  powers  in  slow,  heavy,  embarrassed  spondees  of 
the  same  number  of  syllables,  - 

Monstrum  horrendum,  informe,  ingens  — 

we  could  perceive  a  return  but  of  four  or  five. 

All  echoes  have  some  one  place  to  which  they  are  returned 


554  GILBERT  WHITE 

stronger  and  more  distinct  than  to  any  other;  and  that  is 
always  the  place  that  lies  at  right  angles  with  the  object  of 
repercussion,  and  is  not  too  near  nor  too  far  off.  Buildings,  or 
naked  rocks,  re-echo  much  more  articulately  than  hanging 
woods  or  vales,  because  in  the  latter  the  voice  is  as  it  were  en- 
tangled and  embarrassed  in  the  covert,  and  weakened  in  the 
rebound. 

The  true  object  of  this  echo,  as  we  found  by  various  experi- 
ments, is  the  stone-built,  tiled  hop-kiln  in  Gaily  Lane,  which 
measures  hi  front  forty  feet,  and  from  the  ground  to  the  eaves 
twelve  feet.  The  true  centrum  phonicum,  or  just  distance,  is 
one  particular  spot  in  the  king's  field,  in  the  path  to  Nore  Hill, 
on  the  very  brink  of  the  steep  balk  above  the  hollow  cartway. 
In  this  case  there  is  no  choice  of  distance;  but  the  path,  by 
mere  contingency,  happens  to  be  the  lucky,  the  identical  spot, 
because  the  ground  rises  or  falls  so  immediately,  if  the  speaker 
either  retires  or  advances,  that  his  mouth  would  at  once  be 
above  or  below  the  object.  .  .  . 

Some  time  since  its  discovery  this  echo  is  become  totally 
silent,  though  the  object,  or  hop-kiln,  remains.  Nor  is  there  any 
mystery  in  this  defect;  for  the  field  between  is  planted  as  a  hop 
garden,  and  the  voice  of  the  speaker  is  totally  absorbed  and 
lost  among  the  poles  and  entangled  foliage  of  the  hops.  And 
when  the  poles  are  removed  in  autumn  the  disappointment  is 
the  same;  because  a  tall  quick-set  hedge,  nurtured  up  for  the 
purpose  of  shelter  to  the  hop-ground,  entirely  interrupts  the 
impulse  and  repercussion  of  the  voice;  so  that  till  those  ob- 
structions are  removed,  no  more  of  its  garrulity  can  be  ex- 
pected. 

Should  any  gentleman  of  fortune  think  an  echo  in  his  park 
or  outlet  a  pleasing  incident,  he  might  build  one  at  little  or  no 
expense.  For,  whenever  he  had  occasion  for  a  new  barn,  stable, 
dog-kennel,  or  like  structure,  it  would  be  only  needful  to  erect 
this  building  on  the  gentle  declivity  of  a  hill,  with  a  like  rising 
opposite  to  it,  at  a  few  hundred  yards  distance;  and  perhaps- 
success  might  be  the  easier  ensured  could  some  canal,  lake,  or 
stream  intervene.  From  a  seat  at  the  centrum  phonicum  he  and 
his  friends  might  amuse  themselves  sometimes  of  an  evening 
with  the  prattle  of  this  loquacious  nymph,  of  whose  compla- 


SELBORNE  55S 

cency  and  decent  reserve  more  may  be  said  than  can  with  truth 
of  every  individual  of  her  sex,  since  she  is 

qua  nee  reticere  loquenti, 
Nee  prior  ipsa  loqui  didicit  resonabUis  echo.1 

September  9,  1778. 

...  No  inhabitants  of  a  yard  seem  possessed  of  such  a  variety 
of  expression,  and  so  copious  a  language,  as  common  poultry. 
Take  a  chicken  of  four  or  five  days  old,  and  hold  it  up  to  a  win- 
dow where  there  are  flies,  and  it  will  immediately  seize  its  prey 
with  little  twitterings  of  complacency;  but  if  you  tender  it  a 
wasp  or  a  bee,  at  once  its  note  becomes  harsh,  and  expressive  of 
disapprobation  and  a  sense  of  danger.  When  a  pullet  is  ready 
to  lay,  she  intimates  the  event  by  a  joyous  and  easy  soft  note. 
Of  all  the  occurrences  of  their  life  that  of  laying  seems  to  be  the 
most  important;  for  no  sooner  has  a  hen  disburdened  herself, 
than  she  rushes  forth  with  a  clamorous  kind  of  joy,  which  the 
cock  and  the  rest  of  his  mistresses  immediately  adopt.  The 
tumult  is  not  confined  to  the  family  concerned,  but  catches 
from  yard  to  yard,  and  spreads  to  every  homestead  within 
hearing,  till  at  last  the  whole  village  is  in  an  uproar.  As  soon  as 
a  hen  becomes  a  mother  her  new  relation  demands  a  new  lan- 
guage; she  then  runs  clucking  and  screaming  about,  and  seems 
agitated  as  if  possessed.  The  father  of  the  flock  has  also  a  con- 
siderable vocabulary.  If  he  finds  food,  he  calls  a  favorite  con- 
cubine to  partake;  and  if  a  bird  of  prey  passes  over,  with  a 
warning  voice  he  bids  his  family  beware.  The  gallant  chanti- 
cleer has,  at  command,  his  amorous  phrases  and  his  terms  of 
defiance.  But  the  sound  by  which  he  is  best  known  is  his  crow- 
ing; by  this  he  has  been  distinguished  in  all  ages  as  the  coun- 
tryman's clock  or  larum,  as  the  watchman  that  proclaims  the 
divisions  of  the  night.  Thus  the  poet  elegantly  styles  him— 

—  the  crested  cock,  whose  clarion  sounds 
The  silent  hours.  .  .  . 

April  21,  1780. 

The  old  Sussex  tortoise,  that  I  have  mentioned  to  you  so 
often,  is  become  my  property.  I  dug  it  out  of  its  winter  dormi- 
tory in  March  last,  when  it  was  enough  awakened  to  express  its 

1  "Answering  echo,  who  has  neither  learned  to  keep  silence  when  spoken  to,  nor  to 
speak  first  herself." 


556  GILBERT  WHITE 

resentment  by  hissing;  and,  packing  it  in  a  box  with  earth, 
carried  it  eighty  miles  in  post-chaises.  The  rattle  and  hurry  of 
the  journey  so  perfectly  roused  it  that,  when  I  turned  it  out  on 
a  border,  it  walked  twice  down  to  the  bottom  of  my  garden. 
However,  in  the  evening,  the  weather  being  cold,  it  buried 
itself  in  the  loose  mould,  and  continues  still  concealed.  As  it  will 
be  under  my  eye,  I  shall  now  have  an  opportunity  of  enlarging 
my  observations  on  its  mode  of  life ;  and  already  perceive  that, 
towards  the  time  of  coming  forth,  it  opens  a  breathing  place  in 
the  ground  near  its  head,  —  requiring,  I  conclude,  a  freer 
respiration  as  it  becomes  more  alive.  This  creature  not  only 
goes  under  the  earth  from  the  middle  of  November  to  the  mid- 
dle of  April,  but  sleeps  great  part  of  the  summer;  for  it  goes  to 
bed  in  the  longest  days  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  often  does 
not  stir  in  the  morning  till  late.  Besides,  it  retires  to  rest  for 
every  shower,  and  does  not  move  at  all  in  wet  days. 

When  one  reflects  on  the  state  of  this  strange  being,  it  is  a 
matter  of  wonder  to  find  that  Providence  should  bestow  such  a 
profusion  of  days,  such  a  seeming  waste  of  longevity,  on  a  reptile 
that  appears  to  relish  it  so  little  as  to  squander  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  its  existence  in  a  joyless  stupor,  and  be  lost  to  all  sen- 
sation for  months  together  in  the  profoundest  of  slumbers. 

While  I  was  writing  this  letter,  a  moist  and  warm  afternoon, 
with  the  thermometer  at  50°,  brought  forth  troops  of  shell- 
snails;  and  at  the  same  juncture  the  tortoise  heaved  up  the 
mould  and  put  out  its  head,  and  the  next  morning  came  forth, 
as  it  were,  raised  from  the  dead,  and  walked  about  till  four  in 
the  afternoon.  This  was  a  curious  coincidence,  a  very  amusing 
occurrence !  to  see  such  a  similarity  of  feelings  between  the  two 
<f>epeoLKOL,  —  for  so  the  Greeks  call  both  the  shell-snail  and 
the  tortoise.  .  .  . 

Because  we  call  this  creature  an  abject  reptile,  we  are  too  apt 
to  undervalue  his  abilities  and  depreciate  his  powers  of  instinct. 
Yet  he  is,  as  Mr.  Pope  says  of  his  lord,  — 

Much  too  wise  to  walk  into  a  well,  - 

and  has  so  much  discernment  as  not  to  fall  down  a  haha,  but  to 
stop  and  withdraw  from  the  brink  with  the  readiest  precaution. 
Though  he  loves  warm  weather,  he  avoids  the  hot  sun,  be- 
cause his  thick  shell,  when  once  heated,  would,  as  the  poet  says 


SELBORNE  557 

of  solid  armor,  "scald  with  safety."  He  therefore  spends  the 
more  sultry  hours  under  the  umbrella  of  a  large  cabbage  leaf, 
or  amidst  the  waving  forests  of  an  asparagus  bed.  But,  as  he 
avoids  heat  in  the  summer,  so,  in  the  decline  of  the  year,  he 
improves  the  faint  autumnal  beams  by  getting  within  the 
reflection  of  a  fruit-wall;  and  though  he  never  has  read  that 
planes  inclining  to  the  horizon  receive  a  greater  share  of 
warmth,  he  inclines  his  shell,  by  tilting  it  against  the  wall,  to 
collect  and  admit  every  feeble  ray. 

Pitiable  seems  the  condition  of  this  poor  embarrassed  reptile, 
—  to  be  cased  in  a  suit  of  ponderous  armor,  which  he  cannot 
lay  aside;  to  be  imprisoned,  as  it  were,  within  his  own  shell, 
must  preclude,  we  should  suppose,  all  activity  and  disposition 
for  enterprise.  Yet  there  is  a  season  of  the  year  (usually  the 
beginning  of  June)  when  his  exertions  are  remarkable.  He  then 
walks  on  tiptoe,  and  is  stirring  by  five  in  the  morning;  and, 
traversing  the  garden,  examines  every  wicket  and  interstice  in 
the  fences,  through  which  he  will  escape  if  possible;  and  often 
has  eluded  the  care  of  the  gardener,  and  wandered  to  some  dis- 
tant field.  The  motives  that  impel  him  to  undertake  these 
rambles  seem  to  be  of  the  amorous  kind ;  his  fancy  then  becomes 
intent  on  attachments,  which  transport  him  beyond  his  usual 
gravity,  and  induce  him  to  forget  for  a  time  his  ordinary  solemn 
deportment. 


EDMUND   BURKE 

A  PHILOSOPHICAL  INQUIRY  INTO  THE  ORIGIN  OF 
OUR  IDEAS  OF  THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL 

1756 

[This  work  was  published  when  Burke  was  twenty-six  years  old,  and  had 
been  begun  when  he  was  in  his  nineteenth  year.  The  first  four  parts  of  the 
treatise  deal  with  the  nature  of  pleasure,  of  beauty,  and  of  the  sublime, 
with  special  reference  to  physical  objects  and  their  impressions  on  the 
senses;  the  fifth  part,  on  language  and  literature,  is  reproduced  here.  The 
text  is  the  revised  form  of  the  second  edition  (1757),  to  which  Burke 
added  a  prefatory  discourse  on  Taste,  following  out  some  of  the  matters 
taken  up  by  Addison  in  his  paper  on  the  subject.  While  the  psychology  of 
the  whole  essay  is  now  obsolete,  it  remains  both  intrinsically  interesting 
and  historically  significant  as  one  of  the  earliest  English  studies  in  the 
theory  of  aesthetics.  In  particular,  the  discussion  in  Part  V  of  the  com- 
parative powers  of  language  and  the  arts  of  form,  influenced  Lessing's 
treatment  of  the  same  subject  in  his  Laocoon  (1766).] 

PART  V 

Section  I.  OF  WORDS.  Natural  objects  affect  us,  by  the  laws 
of  that  connection  which  Providence  has  established  between 
certain  motions  and  configurations  of  bodies,  and  certain  con- 
sequent feelings  in  our  mind.  Painting  affects  in  the  same 
manner,  but  with  the  superadded  pleasure  of  imitation.  Archi- 
tecture affects  by  the  laws  of  nature  and  the  law  of  reason; 
from  which  latter  result  the  rules  of  proportion,  which  maker 
a  work  to  be  praised  or  censured,  in  the  whole  or  in  some  part 
when  the  end  for  which  it  was  designed  is  or  is  not  properly 
answered.  But  as  to  words,  they  seem  to  me  to  affect  us  in  a 
manner  very  different  from  that  in  which  we  are  affected  by 
natural  objects,  or  by  painting  or  architecture;  yet  words  have 
as  considerable  a  share  in  exciting  ideas  of  beauty  and  of  the 
sublime  as  many  of  those,  and  sometimes  a  much  greater  than 
any  of  them.  Therefore  an  inquiry  into  the  manner  by  which 
they  excite  such  emotions  is  far  from  being  unnecessary,  in  a 
discourse  of  this  kind. 


THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL  559 

Section  II.  THE  COMMON  EFFECTS  OF  POETRY,  NOT  BY 
RAISING  IDEAS  OF  THINGS.  The  common  notion  of  the  power  of 
poetry  and  eloquence,  as  well  as  that  of  words  in  ordinary  con- 
versation, is  that  they  affect  the  mind  by  raising  in  it  ideas  of 
those  things  for  which  custom  has  appointed  them  to  stand. 
To  examine  the  truth  of  this  notion,  it  may  be  requisite  to  ob- 
serve that  words  may  be  divided  into  three  sorts.  The  first  are 
such  as  represent  many  simple  ideas  united  by  nature  to  form 
some  one  determinate  composition,  as  man,  horse,  tree,  castle, 
etc.  These  I  call  aggregate  words.  The  second  are  they  that 
stand  for  one  simple  idea  of  such  compositions,  and  no  more; 
as  red,  blue,  round,  square,  and  the  like.  These  I  call  simple 
abstract  words.  The  third  are  those  which  are  formed  by  an 
union —  an  arbitrary  union  —  of  both  the  others,  and  of  the 
various  relations  between  them,  in  greater  or  lesser  degrees  of 
complexity;  as  virtue,  honor,  persuasion,  magistrate,  and  the 
like.  These  I  call  compound  abstract  words.  Words,  I  am  sensi- 
ble, are  capable  of  being  classed  into  more  curious  distinctions; 
but  these  seem  to  be  natural,  and  enough  for  our  purpose;  and 
they  are  disposed  in  that  order  in  which  they  are  commonly 
taught,  and  in  which  the  mind  gets  the  ideas  they  are  substi- 
tuted for. 

I  shall  begin  with  the  third  sort  of  words,  —  compound 
abstracts,  such  as  virtue,  honor,  persuasion,  docility.  Of  these 
I  am  convinced  that,  whatever  power  they  may  have  on  the 
passions,  they  do  not  derive  it  from  any  representation  raised 
in  the  mind  of  the  things  for  which  they  stand.  As  composi- 
tions, they  are  not  real  essences,  and  hardly  cause,!  think,  any 
real  ideas.  Nobody,  I  believe,  immediately  on  hearing  the 
sounds  virtue,  liberty,  or  honor,  conceives  any  precise  notions 
of  the  particular  modes  of  action  and  thinking,  together  with 
the  mixed  and  simple  ideas,  and  the  several  relations  of  them, 
for  which  these  words  are  substituted.  Neither  has  he  any 
general  idea,  compounded  of  them;  for  if  he  had,  then  some  of 
those  particular  ones,  though  indistinct,  perhaps,  and  con- 
fused, might  soon  come  to  be  perceived.  But  this,  I  take  it,  is 
hardly  ever  the  case.  For,  put  yourself  upon  analyzing  one  of 
these  words,  and  you  must  reduce  it  from  one  set  of  general 
words  to  another,' and  then  into  the  simple  abstracts  and  ag- 
gregates, in  a  much  longer  series  than  may  be  at  first  imagined, 


560  EDMUND   BURKE 

before  any  real  idea  emerges  to  light,  —  before  you  come  to  dis- 
cover anything  like  the  first  principles  of  such  compositions; 
and  when  you  have  made  such  a  discovery  of  the  original 
ideas,  the  effect  of  the  composition  is  utterly  lost.  A  train  of 
thinking  of  this  sort  is  much  too  long  to  be  pursued  in  the 
ordinary  ways  of  conversation;  nor  is  it  at  all  necessary  that 
it  should.  Such  words  are  in  reality  but  mere  sounds;  but  they 
are  sounds  which,  being  used  on  particular  occasions,  wherein 
we  receive  some  good,  or  suffer  some  evil,  or  see  others  affected 
with  good  or  evil,  or  which  we  hear  applied  to  other  interesting 
things  or  events;  and  being  applied  in  such  a  variety  of  cases 
that  we  know  readily  by  habit  to  what  things  they  belong,  they 
produce  in  the  mind,  whenever  they  are  afterwards  mentioned, 
effects  similar  to  those  of  their  occasions.  The  sounds  being 
often  used  without  reference  to  any  particular  occasion,  and 
carrying  still  their  first  impressions,  they  at  last  utterly  lose  their 
connection  with  the  particular  occasions  that  gave  rise  to  them ; 
yet  the  sound,  without  any  annexed  notion,  continues  to  oper- 
ate as  before. 

Section  III.  GENERAL  WORDS  BEFORE  IDEAS.  Mr.  Locke  has 
somewhere  observed,  with  his  usual  sagacity,  that  most  gen- 
eral words  —  those  belonging  to  virtue  and  vice,  good  and 
evil,  especially  —  are  taught  before  the  particular  modes  of 
action  to  which  they  belong  are  presented  to  the  mind;  and 
with  them  the  love  of  the  one,  and  the  abhorrence  of  the  other. 
For  the  minds  of  children  are  so  ductile  that  a  nurse,  or  any 
person  about  a  child,  by  seeming  pleased  or  displeased  with  any 
thing,  or  even  any  word,  may  give  the  disposition  of  the  child  a 
similar  turn.  When,  afterwards,  the  several  occurrences  in  life 
come  to  be  applied  to  these  words,  and  that  which  is  pleasant 
often  appears  under  the  name  of  evil,  and  what  is  disagreeable 
to  nature  is  called  good  and  virtuous,  a  strange  confusion  of 
ideas  and  affections  arises  in  the  minds  of  many,  and  an  appear- 
ance of  no  small  contradiction  between  their  notions  and  their 
actions.  There  are  many  who  love  virtue  and  who  detest  vice, 
and  this  not  from  hypocrisy  or  affectation,  who  notwithstand- 
ing very  frequently  act  ill  and  wickedly  in  particulars,  without 
the  least  remorse,  because  these  particular  occasions  never 
came  into  view  when  the  passions  on  the  side  of  virtue  were  so 


THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL  56i 

warmly  affected  by  certain  words  heated  originally  by  the 
breath  of  others.  And  for  this  reason  it  is  hard  to  repeat  certain 
sets  of  words,  though  owned  by  themselves  unoperative,  with- 
out being  in  some  degree  affected,  especially  if  a  warm  and 
affecting  tone  of  voice  accompanies  them.  As  suppose  — 

Wise,  valiant,  generous,  good,  and  great. 

These  words,  by  having  no  application,  ought  to  be  unopera- 
tive; but  when  words  commonly  sacred  to  great  occasions  are 
used,  we  are  affected  by  them,  even  without  the  occasions. 
When  words  which  have  been  generally  so  applied  are  put  to- 
gether without  any  rational  view,  or  in  such  a  manner  that  they 
do  not  rightly  agree  with  each  other,  the  style  is  called  bom- 
bast. And  it  requires  in  several  cases  much  good  sense  and  ex- 
perience to  be  guarded  against  the  force  of  such  language;  for 
when  propriety  is  neglected,  a  greater  number  of  these  affecting 
words  may  be  taken  into  the  service,  and  a  greater  variety  may 
be  indulged  in  combining  them. 

Section  IV.  THE  EFFECT  OF  WORDS.  If  words  have  all  their 
possible  extent  of  power,  three  effects  arise  in  the  mind  of  the 
hearer.  The  first  is,  the  sound;  the  second,  the  picture,  or  repre- 
sentation of  the  thing  signified  by  the  sound;  the  third  is  the 
affection  of  the  soul  produced  by  one  or  by  both  of  the  fore- 
going. Compounded  abstract  words,  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking  (honor,  justice,  liberty,  and  the  like),  produce  the 
first  and  the  last  of  these  effects,  but  not  the  second.  Simple  ab- 
stracts are  used  to  signify  some  one  simple  idea,  without  much 
adverting  to  others  which  may  chance  to  attend  it,  as  blue, 
green,  hot,  cold,  and  the  like.  These  are  capable  of  affecting 
all  three  of  the  purposes  of  words,  as  the  aggregate  words  (man, 
castle,  horse,  etc.)  are  in  a  yet  higher  degree.  But  I  am  of  opin- 
ion that  the  most  general  effect,  even  of  these  words,  does  not 
arise  from  their  forming  pictures  of  the  several  things  they 
would  represent  in  the  imagination;  because,  on  a  very  diligent 
examination  of  my  own  mind,  and  getting  others  to  consider 
theirs,  I  do  not  find  that  once  in  twenty  times  any  such  picture 
is  formed;  and  when  it  is,  there  is  most  commonly  a  particular 
effort  of  the  imagination  for  that  purpose.  But  the  aggregate 
words  operate,  as  I  said  of  the  compound-abstracts,  not  by 


562  EDMUND  BURKE 

presenting  any  image  to  the  mind,  but  by  having  from  use  the 
same  effect,  on  being  mentioned,  that  their  original  has  when  it 
is  seen. 

Suppose  we  were  to  read  a  passage  to  this  effect:  "The  river 
Danube  rises  in  a  moist  and  mountainous  soil  in  the  heart  of 
Germany,  where,  winding  to  and  fro,  it  waters  several  princi- 
palities, until,  turning  into  Austria,  and  laving  the  walls  of 
Vienna,  it  passes  into  Hungary.  There,  with  a  vast  flood,  aug- 
mented by  the  Saave  and  the  Drave,  it  quits  Christendom,  and, 
rolling  through  the  barbarous  countries  which  border  on  Tar- 
tary,  it  enters  by  many  mouths  in  the  Black  Sea."  In  this  de- 
scription many  things  are  mentioned,  as  mountains,  rivers, 
cities,  the  sea,  etc.  But  let  anybody  examine  himself,  and  see 
whether  he  has  had  impressed  on  his  imagination  any  pictures 
of  a  river,  mountain,  watery  soil,  Germany,  etc.  Indeed  it  is 
impossible,  in  the  rapidity  and  quick  succession  of  words  in 
conversation,  to  have  ideas  both  of  the  sound  of  the  word  and 
of  the  thing  represented.  Besides,  some  words,  expressing  real 
essences,  are  so  mixed  with  others  of  a  general  and  nominal 
import,  that  it  is  impracticable  to  jump  from  sense  to  thought, 
from  particulars  to  generals,  from  things  to  words,  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  answer  the  purposes  of  life;  nor  is  it  necessary 
that  we  should. 

Section  V.  EXAMPLES  THAT  WORDS  MAY  AFFECT  WITHOUT 
RAISING  IMAGES.  I  find  it  hard  to  persuade  several  that  their 
passions  are  affected  by  words  from  whence  they  have  no  ideas, 
and  yet  harder  to  convince  them  that,  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
conversation,  we  are  sufficiently  understood  without  raising 
any  images  of  the  things  concerning  which  we  speak.  It  seems 
to  be  an  odd  subject  of  dispute  with  any  man,  whether  he  has 
ideas  in  his  mind  or  not.  Of  this,  at  first  view,  every  man,  in  his 
own  forum,  ought  to  judge  without  appeal.  But,  strange  as  it 
may  appear,  we  are  often  at  a  loss  to  know  what  ideas  we  have 
of  things,  or  whether  we  have  any  ideas  at  all  upon  some  sub- 
jects. It  even  requires  a  good  deal  of  attention  to  be  thor- 
oughly satisfied  on  this  head.  Since  I  wrote  these  papers,  I 
found  two  very  striking  instances  of  the  possibility  there  is  that 
a  man  may  hear  words  without  having  any  idea  of  the  things 
which  they  represent,  and  yet  afterwards  be  capable  of  return- 


THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL  563 

ing  them  to  others,  combined  in  a  new  way,  and  with  great  pro- 
priety, energy,  and  instruction.  The  first  instance  is  that  of 
Mr.  Blacklock,  a  poet  blind  from  his  birth.  Few  men  blessed 
with  the  most  perfect  sight  can  describe  visual  objects  with 
more  spirit  and  justness  than  this  blind  man,  which  cannot 
possibly  be  attributed  to  his  having  a  clearer  conception  of 
the  things  he  describes  than  is  common  to  other  persons.  Mr. 
Spence,  in  an  elegant  preface  which  he  has  written  to  the  works 
of  this  poet,  reasons  very  ingeniously  and,  I  imagine,  for  the 
most  part  very  rightly,  upon  the  cause  of  this  extraordinary 
phenomenon.  But  I  cannot  altogether  agree  with  him  that 
some  improprieties  in  language  and  thought,  which  occur  in 
these  poems,  have  arisen  from  the  blind  poet's  imperfect  con- 
ception of  visual  objects,  since  such  improprieties,  and  much 
greater,  may  be  found  in  writers  even  of  a  higher  class  than  Mr. 
Blacklock,  and  who  notwithstanding  possessed  the  faculty  of 
seeing  in  its  full  perfection.  Here  is  a  poet  doubtless  as  much 
affected  by  his  own  descriptions  as  any  that  reads  them  can  be; 
and  yet  he  is  affected  with  this  strong  enthusiasm  by  things  of 
which  he  neither  has,  nor  can  possibly  have,  any  idea  further 
than  that  of  a  bare  sound.  And  why  may  not  those  who  read 
his  works  be  affected  in  the  same  manner  that  he  was,  with  as 
little  of  any  real  ideas  of  the  things  described? 

The  second  instance  is  of  Mr.  Saunderson,  professor  of  math- 
ematics in  the  University  of  Cambridge.  This  learned  man  had 
acquired  great  knowledge  in  natural  philosophy,  in  astronomy, 
and  whatever  sciences  depend  upon  mathematical  skill.  What 
was  the  most  extraordinary,  and  the  most  to  my  purpose,  he 
gave  excellent  lectures  upon  light  and  colors;  and  this  man 
taught  others  the  theory  of  those  ideas  which  they  had,  and 
which  he  himself  undoubtedly  had  not.  But  it  is  probable  that 
the  words  red,  blue,  green,  answered  to  him  as  well  as  the  ideas 
of  the  colors  themselves;  for,  the  ideas  of  greater  or  lesser  de- 
grees of  refrangibility  being  applied  to  these  words,  and  the 
blind  man  being  instructed  in  what  other  respects  they  were 
found  to  agree  or  to  disagree,  it  was  as  easy  for  him  to  reason 
upon  the  words  as  if  he  had  been  fully  master  of  the  ideas.  In- 
deed it  must  be  owned  he  could  make  no  new  discoveries  in  the 
way  of  experiment.  He  did  nothing  but  what  we  do  every  day 
in  common  discourse.  When  I  wrote  this  last  sentence,  and 


564  EDMUND  BURKE 

used  the  words  "every  day"  and  "common  discourse,"  I  had 
no  images  in  my  mind  of  any  succession  of  time,  nor  of  men  in 
conference  with  each  other;  nor  do  I  imagine  that  the  reader 
will  have  any  such  ideas  on  reading  it.  Neither  when  I  spoke 
of  red,  or  blue,  or  green,  as  well  as  refrangibility,  had  I  these 
several  colors,  or  the  rays  of  light  passing  into  a  different  me- 
dium and  there  diverted  from  their  course,  painted  before  me  in 
the  way  of  images.  I  know  very  well  that  the  mind  possesses  a 
faculty  of  raising  such  images  at  pleasure ;  but  then  an  act  of  the 
will  is  necessary  to  this,  and  in  ordinary  conversation  or  reading 
it  is  very  rarely  that  any  image  at  all  is  excited  in  the  mind.  If 
I  say,  "I  shall  go  to  Italy  next  summer,"  I  am  well  understood. 
Yet  I  believe  nobody  has  by  this  painted  in  his  imagination  the 
exact  figure  of  the  speaker  passing  by  land  or  water,  or  both, 
sometimes  on  horseback,  sometimes  in  a  carriage,  with  all  the 
particulars  of  the  journey.  Still  less  has  he  any  idea  of  Italy,  the 
country  to  which  I  propose  to  go;  or  of  the  greenness  of  the 
fields,  the  ripening  of  the  fruits,  and  the  warmth  of  the  air,  with 
the  change  to  this  from  a  different  season,  which  are  the  ideas 
forwhich  the  word  "  summer  "  is  substituted.  But  least  of  all  has 
he  any  image  from  the  word  "next";  for  this  word  stands  for 
the  idea  of  many  summers,  with  the  exclusion  of  all  but  one, 
and  surely  the  man  who  says  "next  summer"  has  no  images  of 
such  a  succession  and  such  an  exclusion.  In  short,  it  is  not  only 
of  those  ideas  which  are  commonly  called  abstract,  and  of  which 
no  image  at  all  can  be  formed,  but  even  of  particular,  real  be- 
ings, that  we  converse  without  having  any  idea  of  them  excited 
in  the  imagination,  as  will  certainly  appear  on  a  diligent  exami- 
nation of  our  minds. 

Indeed,  so  little  does  poetry  depend  for  its  effect  on  the  power 
of  raising  sensible  images,  that  I  am  convinced  it  would  lose  a 
very  considerable  part  of  its  energy,  if  this  were  the  necessary 
result  of  all  description.  Because  that  union  of  affecting  words, 
which  is  the  most  powerful  of  all  poetical  instruments,  would 
frequently  lose  its  force,  along  with  its  propriety  and  consist- 
ency, if  the  sensible  images  were  always  excited.  There  is  not, 
perhaps,  in  the  whole  Mneid  a  more  grand  and  labored  passage 
than  the  description  of  Vulcan's  cavern  in  ^Etna,  and  the  works 
that  are  there  carried  on.  Virgil  dwells  particularly  on  the  for- 
mation of  the  thunder,  which  he  describes  unfinished  under  the 


THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL  565 

hammers  of  the  Cyclops.  But  what  are  the  principles  of  this 
extraordinary  composition? 

Tres  imbris  torti  radios,  ires  nubis  aquosa 
Addiderant;  rutuli  tres  ignis,  et  alitis  austri; 
Fulgores  nunc  lerrificos,  sonilumque,  metumque 
Miscebant  operi,  flammisque  sequacibus  iras. 

This  seems  to  me  admirably  sublime;  yet  if  we  attend  coolly 
to  the  kind  of  sensible  images  which  a  combination  of  ideas  of 
this  sort  must  form,  the  chimeras  of  madmen  cannot  appear 
more  wild  and  absurd  than  such  a  picture.  "Three  rays  of 
twisted  showers,  three  of  watery  clouds,  three  of  fire,  and  three 
of  the  winged  south  wind;  then  mixed  they  in  the  work  terrific 
lightnings,  and  sound,  and  fear,  and  anger,  with  pursuing 
flames."  This  strange  composition  is  formed  into  a  gross  body; 
it  is  hammered  by  the  Cyclops,  it  is  in  part  polished,  and  partly 
continues  rough.  The  truth  is,  if  poetry  gives  us  a  noble  assem- 
blage of  words  corresponding  to  many  noble  ideas  which  are 
connected  by  circumstances  of  time  or  place,  or  related  to  each 
other  as  cause  and  effect,  or  associated  in  any  natural  way,  they 
may  be  moulded  together  in  any  form,  and  perfectly  answer 
their  end.  The  picturesque  connection  is  not  demanded,  be- 
cause no  real  picture  is  formed,  nor  is  the  effect  of  the  descrip- 
tion at  all  the  less  upon  this  account.  What  is  said  of  Helen  by 
Priam  and  the  old  men  of  his  council  is  generally  thought  to 
give  us  the  highest  possible  idea  of  that  fatal  beauty. 


T/5<3<xs  Kal 

S'  a/j.(pi  yvvaiid  TTO\UI/ 
AtVws  S'  i6a.v6.rya  t  fogs  «'j  &ra  t 

They  cried,  No  wonder  such  celestial  charms 

For  nine  long  years  have  set  the  world  in  arms; 

What  winning  graces!  what  majestic  mien! 

She  moves  a  goddess,  and  she  looks  a  queen.  POPE. 

Here  is  not  one  word  said  of  the  particulars  of  her  beauty;  no- 
thing which  can  in  the  least  help  us  to  any  precise  idea  of  her 
person;  but  yet  we  are  much  more  touched  by  this  manner  of 
mentioning  her  than  by  those  long  and  labored  descriptions  of 
Helen,  whether  handed  down  by  tradition  or  formed  by  fancy, 
which  are  to  be  met  with  in  some  authors.  I  am  sure  it  affects 
me  much  more  than  the  minute  description  which  Spenser  has 
given  of  Belphebe.  though  I  own  that  there  are  parts  in  that  de- 


566  EDMUND  BURKE 

scription,  as  there  are  in  all  the  descriptions  of  that  excellent 
writer,  extremely  fine  and  poetical. 

The  terrible  picture  which  Lucretius  has  drawn  of  Religion, 
in  order  to  display  the  magnanimity  of  his  philosophical  hero 
in  opposing  her,  is  thought  to  be  designed  with  great  boldness 
and  spirit. 

Humana  ante  oculos  fade  cum  vita  jaceret, 
In  terris,  oppressa  gram  sub  religione, 
QUCR  caput  e  cceli  regionibus  ostendebat 
Horribili  super  aspectu  mortalibus  instans; 
Primus  Grains  homo  mortales  tollere  contra 
Est  oculos  ausus  1  — 

What  idea  do  you  derive  from  so  excellent  a  picture?  None  at 
all,  most  certainly;  neither  has  the  poet  said  a  single  word  which 
might  in  the  least  serve  to  mark  a  single  limb  or  feature  of  the 
phantom  which  he  intended  to  represent  in  all  the  horrors  im- 
agination can  conceive.  In  reality,  poetry  and  rhetoric  do  not 
succeed  in  exact  description  so  well  as  painting  does.  Their 
business  is  to  affect  rather  by  sympathy  than  imitation,  to  dis- 
play rather  the  effect  of  things  on  the  mind  of  the  speaker,  or  of 
others,  than  to  present  a  clear  idea  of  the  things  themselves. 
This  is  their  most  extensive  province,  and  that  in  which  they 
succeed  the  best. 

Section  VI.  POETRY  NOT  STRICTLY  AN  IMITATIVE  ART.  Hence 
we  may  observe  that  poetry,  taken  in  its  most  general  sense, 
cannot  with  strict  propriety  be  called  an  art  of  imitation.  It  is 
indeed  an  imitation  so  far  as  it  describes  the  manners  and  pas- 
sions of  men  which  their  words  can  express,  —  where  animi 
motus  effert  inter prete  lingua.2  There  it  is  strictly  imitation;  and 
all  merely  dramatic  poetry  is  of  this  sort.  But  descriptive  poetry 
operates  chiefly  by  substitution,  —  by  the  means  of  sounds 
which  by  custom  have  the  effect  of  realities.  Nothing  is  an  imi- 
tation further  than  as  it  resembles  some  other  thing,  and  words 
undoubtedly  have  no  sort  of  resemblance  to  the  ideas  for 
which  they  stand. 

1  "When  human  life  to  view  lay  foully  prostrate  upon  earth,  crushed  down  under  the 
weight  of  Religion,  who  showed  her  head  from  the  quarters  of  heaven  with  hideous  aspect 
lowering  uoon  mortals,  a  man  of  Greece  ventured  first  to  lift  up  his  mortal  eyes  to  her 
face,  and  first  to  withstand  her  to  her  face."   (Translation  of  Prof.  H.  A.  J.  Munro.) 

2  "The  emotions  of  the  soul  are  expressed  by  the  tongue  as  interpreter." 


THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL  567 

Section  VII.  How  WORDS  INFLUENCE  THE  PASSIONS. 
Now  as  words  affect,  not  by  any  original  power,  but  by  repre- 
sentation, it  might  be  supposed  that  their  influence  over  the  pas- 
sions should  be  but  light;  yet  it  is  quite  otherwise;  for  we  find 
by  experience  that  eloquence  and  poetry  are  as  capable,  nay 
indeed  much  more  capable,  of  making  deep  and  lively  impres- 
sions than  any  other  arts,  and  even  than  nature  itself  in  very 
many  cases.  And  this  arises  chiefly  from  these  three  causes. 
First,  that  we  take  an  extraordinary  part  in  the  passions  of 
others,  and  that  we  are  easily  affected  and  brought  into  sym- 
pathy by  any  tokens  which  are  shown  of  them,  and  there  are  no 
tokens  which  can  express  all  the  circumstances  of  most  passions 
so  fully  as  words;  so  that  if  a  person  speaks  upon  any  subject, 
he  can  not  only  convey  the  subject  to  you,  but  likewise  the 
manner  in  which  he  is  himself  affected  by  it.  Certain  it  is,  that 
the  influence  of  most  things  on  our  passions  is  not  so  much  from 
the  things  themselves,  as  from  our  opinions  concerning  them ; 
and  these  again  depend  very  much  on  the  opinions  of  other 
men,  conveyable'  for  the  most  part  by  words  only.  Secondly, 
there  are  many  things  of  a  very  affecting  nature,  which  can 
seldom  occur  in  the  reality,  but  the  words  that  represent  them 
often  do;  and  thus  they  have  an  opportunity  of  making  a  deep 
impression  and  taking  root  in  the  mind,  whilst  the  idea  of  the 
reality  was  transient,  and  to  some  perhaps  never  really  oc- 
curred in  any  shape,  to  whom  it  is  notwithstanding  very  affect- 
ing,— as  war,  death,  famine,  etc.  Besides,  many  ideas  have 
never  been  at  all  presented  to  the  senses  of  any  men  but  by 
words,  as  God,  angels,  devils,  heaven  and  hell,  all  of  which  have 
however  a  great  influence  over  the  passions.  Thirdly,  by  words 
we  have  it  in  our  power  to  make  such  combinations  as  we  can- 
not possibly  do  otherwise.  By  this  power  of  combining,  we  are 
able,  by  the  addition  of  well  chosen  circumstances,  to  give  a 
new  life  and  force  to  the  simple  object.  In  painting  we  may  re- 
present any  fine  figure  we  please,  but  we  never  can  give  it  those 
enlivening  touches  which  it  may  receive  from  words.  To  repre- 
sent an  angel  in  a  picture,  you  can  only  draw  a  beautiful  young 
man  winged;  but  what  painting  can  furnish  out  anything  so 
grand  as  the  addition  of  one  word, "  the  angel  of  the  Lord  "  ?  It 
is  true,  I  have  here  no  clear  idea;  but  these  words  affect  the 
mind  more  than  the  sensible  image  did;  which  is  all  I  contend 


568  EDMUND  BURKE 

ior.  A  picture  of  Priam  dragged  to  the  altar's  foot,  and  there 
murdered,  if  it  were  well  executed  would  undoubtedly  be  very 
moving;  but  there  are  very  aggravating  circumstances  which  it 
could  never  represent :  — 

Sanguine  foedantem  quos  ipse  sacraverat  ignes.1 

As  a  further  instance,  let  us  consider  those  lines  of  Milton, 
where  he  describes  the  travels  of  the  fallen  angels  though  their 
dismal  habitation :  — 

—  O'er  many  a  dark  and  dreary  vale 

They  passed,  and  many  a  region  dolorous; 

O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alp; 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and  shades  of  death, 

A  universe  of  death.  — 

Here  is  displayed  the  force  of  union  in  — 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  dens,  bogs,  fens,  and  shades; 

which  yet  would  lose  the  greatest  part  of  their  effect  if  they 

were  not  the  — 

i 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  dens,  bogs,  fens,  and  shades  —  of  death. 

This  idea,  or  this  affection,  caused  by  a  word,  which  nothing 
but  a  word  could  annex  to  the  others,  raises  a  very  great  degree 
of  the  sublime;  and  this  sublime  is  raised  yet  higher  by  what 
follows,  a  "universe  of  death."  Here  are  again  two  ideas  not 
presentable  but  by  language,  and  an  union  of  them  great  and 
amazing  beyond  conception, — if  they  may  properly  be  called 
ideas  which  present  no  distinct  image  to  the  mind.  But  still  it 
will  be  difficult  to  conceive  how  words  can  move  the  passions 
which  belong  to  real  objects,  without  representing  these  objects 
clearly.  This  is  difficult  to  us,  because  we  do  not  sufficiently 
distinguish,  in  our  observations  upon  language,  between  a  clear 
expression  and  a  strong  expression.  These  are  frequently  con- 
founded with  each  other,  though  they  are  in  reality  extremely 
different.  The  former  regards  the  understanding;  the  latter 
belongs  to  the  passions.  The  one  describes  a  thing  as  it  is ;  the 
latter  describes  it  as  it  is  felt.  Now  as  there  is  a  moving  tone  of 
voice,  an  impassioned  countenance,  an  agitated  gesture,  which 
affect  independently  of  the  things  about  which  they  are  exerted, 
W>  there  are  words,  and  certain  dispositions  of  words,  which, 

1  "Polluting  with  his  blood  the  very  fires  which  he  had  consecrated." 


THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL  569 

being  peculiarly  devoted  to  passionate  subjects,  and  always 
used  by  those  who  are  under  the  influence  of  any  passion,  touch 
and  move  us  more  than  those  which  far  more  clearly  and  dis- 
tinctly express  the  subject-matter.  We  yield  to  sympathy  what 
we  refuse  to  description.  The  truth  is,  all  verbal  description, 
merely  as  naked  description,  though  never  so  exact,  conveys 
so  poor  and  insufficient  an  idea  of  the  thing  described,  that  it 
could  scarcely  have  the  smallest  effect,  if  the  speaker  did  not 
call  in  to  his  aid  those  modes  of  speech  that  mark  a  strong  and 
lively  feeling  in  himself.  Then,  by  the  contagion  of  our  passions, 
we  catch  a  fire  already  kindled  in  another,  which  probably 
might  never  have  been  struck  out  by  the  object  described. 
Words,  by  strongly  conveying  the  passions,  by  those  means 
which  we  have  already  mentioned,  fully  compensate  for  their 
weakness  in  other  respects.  It  may  be  observed  that  very  pol- 
ished languages,  and  such  as  are  praised  for  their  superior  clear- 
ness and  perspicuity,  are  generally  deficient  in  strength.  The 
French  language  has  that  perfection  and  that  defect;  whereas 
the  Oriental  tongues,  and  in  general  the  languages  of  most  un- 
polished people,  have  a  great  force  and  energy  of  expression; 
and  this  is  but  natural.  Uncultivated  people  are  but  ordinary 
observers  of  things,  and  not  critical  in  distinguishing  them; 
but  for  that  reason  they  admire  more,  and  are  more  affected 
with  what  they  see,  and  therefore  express  themselves  in  a 
warmer  and  more  passionate  manner.  If  the  affection  be  well 
conveyed,  it  will  work  its  effect  without  any  clear  idea,  often 
without  any  idea  at  all  of  the  thing  which  has  originally  given 
rise  to  it. 

It  might  be  expected,  from  the  fertility  of  the  subject,  that 
I  should  consider  poetry,  as  it  regards  the  sublime  and  beautiful, 
more  at  large;  but  it  must  be  observed  that  in  this  light  it  has 
been  often  and  well  handled  already.  It  was  not  my  design  to 
enter  into  the  criticism  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful  in  any  art, 
but  to  attempt  to  lay  down  such  principles  as  may  tend  to  ascer- 
tain, to  distinguish,  and  to  form  a  sort  of  standard  for  them; 
which  purposes  I  thought  might  be  best  effected  by  an  inquiry 
into  the  properties  of  such  things  in  nature  as  raise  love  and 
astonishment  in  us,  and  by  showing  in  what  manner  they  oper- 
ated to  produce  these  passions.  Words  were  only  so  far  to  be 
considered,  as  to  show  upon  what  principle  they  were  capable 


570  EDMUND  BURKE 

of  being  the  representatives  of  these  natural  things,  and  by 
what  powers  they  were  able  to  affect  us  often  as  strongly  as  the 
things  they  represent,  and  sometimes  much  more  strongly. 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    CAUSE    OF    THE    PRESENT 

DISCONTENTS 

1770 

[This  pamphlet  was  written  on  behalf  of  the  "Rockingham  Whigs."  To 
it,  says  the  account  of  Burke  in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  "is 
to  be  attributed  the  regeneration  of  the  Whigs  by  the  revival  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  1688,  which  had  been  wellnigh  forgotten  by  the  intrigues  of 
the  Bedford  faction.  Burke  defended  the  popular  discontent.  .  .  .  The 
fault  lay  with  the  administration;  the  power  of  the  crown  had  revived 
under  the  name  of  influence,  and  the  intrigues  of  the  court  cabal  were  tak- 
ing the  place  of  the  interests  of  the  people.  .  .  .  The  true  remedies  were 
to  give  weight  to  the  opinion  of  the  people  by  doing  away  with  the  secrecy 
of  parliamentary  proceedings,  and  to  substitute  loyal  adherence  to  party 
for  the  influence  of  the  court."  The  extracts  here  reproduced  are  from  the 
concluding  portion,  in  defense  of  party  government.] 

...  IT  is  not  enough,  in  a  situation  of  trust  in  the  common- 
wealth, that  a  man  means  well  to  his  country;  it  is  not  enough 
that  in  his  single  person  he  never  did  an  evil  act,  but  always  voted 
according  to  his  conscience,  and  even  harangued  against  every 
design  which  he  apprehended  to  be  prejudicial  to  the  interests 
of  his  country.  This  innoxious  and  ineffectual  character,  that 
seems  formed  upon  a  plan  of  apology  and  disculpation,  falls 
miserably  short  of  the  mark  of  public  duty.  That  duty  de- 
mands and  requires  that  what  is  right  should  not  only  be  made 
known,  but  made  prevalent;  that  what  is  evil  should  not  only  be 
detected,  but  defeated.  When  the  public  man  omits  to  put  him- 
self in  a  situation  of  doing  his  duty  with  effect,  it  is  an  omission 
that  frustrates  the  purposes  of  his  trust  almost  as  much  as  if  he 
had  formally  betrayed  it.  It  is  surely  no  very  rational  account 
of  a  man's  life,  that  he  has  always  acted  right,  but  has  taken 
special  care  to  act  in  such  a  manner  that  his  endeavors  could 
not  possibly  be  productive  of  any  consequence. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  the  behavior  of  many  parties  should 
have  made  persons  of  tender  and  scrupulous  virtue  somewhat 
out  of  humor  with  all  sorts  of  connection  in  politics.  I  admit 
that  people  frequently  acquire  in  such  confederacies  a  narrow, 


THE  PRESENT  DISCONTENTS  571 

bigoted,  and  prescriptive  spirit;  that  they  are  apt  to  sink  the 
idea  of  the  general  good  in  this  circumscribed  and  partial  inter- 
est. But  where  duty  renders  a  critical  situation  a  necessary 
one,  it  is  our  business  to  keep  free  from  the  evils  attendant  upon 
it,  and  not  to  fly  from  the  situation  itself.  If  a  fortress  is  seated 
in  an  unwholesome  air,  an  officer  of  the  garrison  is  obliged  to 
be  attentive  to  his  health,  but  he  must  not  desert  his  station. 
Every  profession,  not  excepting  the  glorious  one  of  a  soldier, 
or  the  sacred  one  of  a  priest,  is  liable  to  its  own  particular  vices; 
which,  however,  form  no  argument  against  those  ways  of  life; 
nor  are  the  vices  themselves  inevitable  to  every  individual  in 
those  professions.  Of  such  a  nature  are  connections  in  politics; 
essentially  necessary  for  the  full  performance  of  our  public 
duty,  accidentally  liable  to  degenerate  into  faction.  Common- 
wealths are  made  of  families,  free  commonwealths  of  parties 
also;  and  we  may  as  well  affirm- that  our  natural  regards  and 
ties  of  blood  tend  inevitably  to  make  men  bad  citizens,  as  that 
the  bonds  of  our  party  weaken  those  by  which  we  are  held  to 
our  country. 

Some  legislators  went  so  far  as  to  make  neutrality  in  party  a 
crime  against  the  state.  I  do  not  know  whether  this  might  not 
have  been  rather  to  overstrain  the  principle.  Certain  it  is,  the 
best  patriots  in  the  greatest  commonwealths  have  always  com- 
mended and  promoted  such  connections.  Idem  sentire  de  re- 
publica1  was  with  them  a  principal  ground  of  friendship  and  at- 
tachment; nor  do  I  know  any  other  capable  of  forming  firmer, 
dearer,  more  pleasing,  more  honorable,  and  more  virtuous  habi- 
tudes. The  Romans  carried  this  principle  a  great  way.  Even 
the  holding  of  offices  together,  the  disposition  of  which  arose 
from  chance,  not  selection,  gave  rise  to  a  relation  which  contin- 
ued for  life.  It  was  called  necesstiudo  sortis;  and  it  was  looked 
upon  with  a  sacred  reverence.  Breaches  of  any  of  these  kinds 
of  civil  relation  were  considered  as  acts  of  the  most  distin- 
guished turpitude.  The  whole  people  was  distributed  into  po- 
litical societies,  in  which  they  acted  in  support  of  such  interests 
in  the  state  as  they  severally  affected.  For  it  was  then  thought 
no  crime  to  endeavor  by  every  honest  means  to  advance  to  su- 
periority and  power  those  of  your  own  sentiments  and  opinions. 
This  wise  people  was  far  from  imagining  that  those  connections 

1  "To  hold  the  same  political  opinions." 


572  EDMUND  BURKE 

had  no  tie,  and  obliged  to  no  duty,  but  that  men  might  quit 
them  without  shame,  upon  every  call  of  interest.  They  believed 
private  honor  to  be  the  great  foundation  of  public  trust;  that 
friendship  was  no  mean  step  toward  patriotism ;  that  he  who,  in 
the  common  intercourse  of  life,  showed  he  regarded  somebody 
besides  himself,  when  he  came  to  act  in  a  public  situation, 
might  probably  consult  some  other  interest  than  his  own. 
Never  may  we  become  plus  sages  que  les  sages,  as  the  French 
comedian  has  happily  expressed  it, — wiser  than  all  the  wise  and 
good  men  who  have  lived  before  us.  It  was  their  wish  to  see 
public  and  private  virtues,  not  dissonant  and  jarring,  and  mu- 
tually destructive,  but  harmoniously  combined,  growing  out  of 
one  another  in  a  noble  and  orderly  gradation,  reciprocally  sup- 
porting and  supported.  In  one  of  the  most  fortunate  periods 
of  our  history  this  country  was  governed  by  a  connection,  —  I 
mean  the  great  connection  of  Whigs  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne. 
They  were  complimented  upon  the  principle  of  this  connection 
by  a  poet  who  was  in  high  esteem  with  them.  Addison,  who 
knew  their  sentiments,  could  not  praise  them  for  what  they  con- 
sidered as  no  proper  subject  of  commendation.  As  a  poet  who 
knew  his  business,  he  could  not  applaud  them  for  a  thing  which 
in  general  estimation  was  not  highly  reputable.  Addressing  him- 
self to  Britain,  — 

Thy  favorites  grow  not  up  by  fortune's  sport, 

Or  from  the  crimes  or  follies  of  a  court; 

On  the  firm  basis  of  desert  they  rise, 

From  long-tried  faith,  and  friendship's  holy  ties. 

The  Whigs  of  those  days  believed  that  the  only  proper  me- 
thod of  rising  into  power  was  through  hard  essays  of  practiced 
friendship  and  experimented  fidelity.  At  that  time  it  was  not 
imagined  that  patriotism  was  a  bloody  idol,  which  required  the 
sacrifice  of  children  and  parents,  or  dearest  connections  in  pri- 
vate life,  and  of  all  the  virtues  that  rise  from  those  relations. 
They  were  not  of  that  ingenious  paradoxical  morality,  to  im- 
agine that  a  spirit  of  moderation  was  properly  shown  in  pa- 
tiently bearing  the  sufferings  of  your  friends,  or  that  disinter- 
estedness was  clearly  manifested  at  the  expense  of  other  peo- 
ple's fortune.  They  believed  that  no  men  could  act  with  effect, 
who  did  not  act  in  concert;  that  no  men  could  act  in  concert, 


THE  PRESENT  DISCONTENTS  573 

who  did  not  act  with  confidence;  that  no  men  could  act  with 
confidence,  who  were  not  bound  together  by  common  opinions, 
common  affections,  and  common  interests. 

These  wise  men,  for  such  I  must  call  Lord  Sunderland,  Lon. 
Godolphin,  Lord  Somers,  and  Lord  Marlborough,  were  too  well 
principled  in  these  maxims  upon  which  the  whole  fabric  of 
public  strength  is  built,  to  be  blown  off  their  ground  by  the 
breath  of  every  childish  talker.  They  were  not  afraid  that  they 
should  be  called  an  ambitious  Junto,  or  that  their  resolution  to 
stand  or  fall  together  should,  by  placemen,  be  interpreted  into 
a  scuffle  for  places. 

Party  is  a  body  of  men  united,  for  promoting  by  their  joint 
endeavors  the  national  interest,  upon  some  particular  principle 
in  which  they  are  all  agreed.  For  my  part,  I  find  it  impossible 
to  conceive  that  any  one  believes  in  his  own  politics,  or  thinks 
them  to  be  of  any  weight,  who  refuses  to  adopt  the  means  of 
having  them  reduced  into  practice.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
speculative  philosopher  to  mark  the  proper  ends  of  government. 
It  is  the  business  of  the  politician,  who  is  the  philosopher  in 
action,  to  find  out  proper  means  towards  those  ends,  and  to 
employ  them  with  effect.  Therefore  every  honorable  connec- 
tion will  avow  it  is  their  first  purpose  to  pursue  every  just 
method  to  put  the  men  who  hold  their  opinions  into  such  a  con- 
dition as  may  enable  them  to  carry  their  common  plans  into 
execution,  with  all  the  power  and  authority  of  the  state.  As 
this  power  is  attached  to  certain  situations,  it  is  their  duty  to 
contend  for  these  situations.  Without  a  proscription  of  others, 
they  are  bound  to  give  to  their  own  party  the  preference  in  all 
things,  and  by  no  means,  for  private  considerations,  to  accept 
any  offers  of  power  in  which  the  whole  body  is  not  included;  nor 
to  suffer  themselves  to  be  led,  or  to  be  controlled,  or  to  be  over- 
balanced, in  office  or  in  council,  by  those  who  contradict  the 
very  fundamental  principles  on  which  their  party  is  formed, 
and  even  those  upon  which  every  fair  connection  must  stand. 
Such  a  generous  contention  for  power,  on  such  manly  and 
honorable  maxims,  will  easily  be  distinguished  from  the  mean 
and  interested  struggle  for  place  and  emolument. 
style  of  such  persons  will  serve  to  discriminate  them  from  those 
numberless  impostors  who  have  deluded  the  ignorant  with  pr< 
fessions  incompatible  with  human  practice,  and  have  after- 


574  EDMUND  BURKE 

wards  incensed  them  by  practices  below  the  level  of  vulgar 
rectitude. 

It  is  an  advantage  to  all  narrow  wisdom  and  narrow  morals, 
that  their  maxims  have  a  plausible  air,  and,  on  a  cursory  view, 
appear  equal  to  first  principles.  They  are  light  and  portable. 
They  are  as  current  as  copper  coin,  and  about  as  valuable. 
They  serve  equally  the  first  capacities  and  the  lowest;  and  they 
are  at  least  as  useful  to  the  worst  men  as  the  best.  Of  this 
stamp  is  the  cant  of  Not  men  but  measures,  —  a  sort  of  charm 
by  which  many  people  get  loose  from  every  honorable  engage- 
ment. When  I  see  a  man  acting  this  desultory  and  disconnected 
part,  with  as  much  detriment  to  his  own  fortune  as  prejudice 
to  the  cause  of  any  party,  I  am  not  persuaded  that  he  is  right, 
but  I  am  ready  to  believe  he  is  in  earnest.  I  respect  virtue  in  all 
its  situations,  even  when  it  is  found  in  the  unsuitable  company 
of  weakness.  I  lament  to  see  qualities,  rare  and  valuable,  squan- 
dered away  without  any  public  utility.  But  when  a  gentleman 
with  great  visible  emoluments  abandons  the  party  in  which  he 
has  long  acted,  and  tells  you  it  is  because  he  proceeds  upon  his 
own  judgment;  that  he  acts  on  the  merits  of  the  several  mea- 
sures as  thejr  arise ;  and  that  he  is  obliged  to  follow  his  own  con- 
science, and  not  that  of  others;  he  gives  reasons  which  it  is 
impossible  to  controvert,  and  discovers  a  character  which  it  is 
impossible  to  mistake.  What  shall  we  think  of  him  who  never 
differed  from  a  certain  set  of  men  until  the  moment  they  lost 
their  power,  and  who  never  agreed  with  them  in  a  single  in- 
stance afterwards?  Would  not  such  a  coincidence  of  interest 
and  opinion  be  rather  fortunate?  Would  it  not  be  an  extraor- 
dinary cast  upon  the  dice,  that  a  man's  connections  should  de- 
generate into  faction,  precisely  at  the  critical  moment  when 
they  lose  their  power,  or  he  accepts  a  place?  When  people 
desert  their  connections,  the  desertion  is  a  manifest  fact,  upon 
which  a  direct  simple  issue  lies,  triable  by  plain  men.  Whether 
a  measure  of  government  be  right  or  wrong,  is  no  matter  of  fact, 
but  a  mere  affair  of  opinion,  on  which  men  may,  as  they  do, 
dispute  and  wrangle  without  end.  But  whether  the  individual 
thinks  the  measure  right  or  wrong,  is  a  point  at  still  a  greater 
distance  from  the  reach  of  all  human  decision.  It  is  therefore 
very  convenient  to  politicians  not  to  put  the  judgment  of  their 
conduct  on  overt  acts,  cognizable  in  any  ordinary  court,  but 


THE  PRESENT  DISCONTENTS  575 

upon  such  matter  as  can  be  triable  only  in  that  secret  tribunal 
where  they  are  sure  of  being  heard  with  favor,  or  where  at  worst 
the  sentence  will  be  only  private  whipping. 

I  believe  the  reader  would  wish  to  find  no  substance  in  a  doc- 
trine which  has  a  tendency  to  destroy  all  test  of  character  as 
deduced  from  conduct.  He  will  therefore  excuse  my  adding 
something  more,  towards  the  further  clearing  up  a  point  which 
the  great  convenience  of  obscurity  to  dishonesty  has  been  able 
to  cover  with  some  degree  of  darkness  and  doubt. 

In  order  to  throw  an  odium  on  political  connection,  these 
politicians  suppose  it  a  necessary  incident  to  it  that  you  are 
blindly  to  follow  the  opinions  of  your  party,  when  in  direct 
opposition  to  your  own  clear  ideas;  a  degree  of  servitude  that 
no  worthy  man  could  bear  the  thought  of  submitting  to,  and 
such  as,  I  believe,  no  connections  (except  some  court  factions) 
ever  could  be  so  senselessly  tyrannical  as  to  impose.  Men  think- 
ing freely  will,  in  particular  instances,  think  differently.  But 
still,  as  the  greater  part  of  the  measures  which  arise  in  the  course 
of  public  business  are  related  to,  or  dependent  on,  some  great 
leading  general  principles  in  government,  a  man  must  be  pecu- 
liarly unfortunate  in  the  choice  of  his  political  company  if  he 
does  not  agree  with  them  at  least  nine  times  in  ten.  If  he  does 
not  concur  in  these  general  principles  upon  which  the  party  is 
founded,  and  which  necessarily  draw  on  a  concurrence  in  their 
application,  he  ought  from  the  beginning  to  have  chosen  some 
other,  more  conformable  to  his  opinions.  When  the  question  is 
in  its  nature  doubtful,  or  not  very  material,  the  modesty  which 
becomes  an  individual,  and  (in  spite  of  our  court  moralists) 
that  partiality  which  becomes  a  well-chosen  friendship,  will 
frequently  bring  on  an  acquiescence  in  the  general  sentiment. 
Thus  the  disagreement  will  naturally  be  rare;  it  will  be  only 
enough  to  indulge  freedom,  without  violating  concord,  or  dis- 
turbing arrangement.  And  this  is  all  that  ever  was  required  for 
a  character  of  the  greatest  uniformity  and  steadiness  in  connec- 
tion. How  men  can  proceed  without  any  connection  at  all,  is 
to  me  utterly  incomprehensible.  Of  what  sort  of  materials  must 
that  man  be  made,  —  how  must  he  be  tempered  and  put  to- 
gether, who  can  sit  whole  years  in  Parliament,  with  five  hun- 
dred and  fifty  of  his  fellow-citizens,  amidst  the  storm  of  such 
tempestuous  passions,  in  the  sharp  conflict  of  so  many  wits, 


576  EDMUND   BURKE 

and  tempers,  and  characters,  in  the  agitation  of  such  mighty 
questions,  in  the  discussion  of  such  vast  and  ponderous  inter- 
ests, without  seeing  any  one  sort  of  men,  whose  character,  con- 
duct, or  disposition  would  lead  him  to  associate  himself  with 
them,  to  aid  and  be  aided,  in  any  one  system  of  public  utility? 
I  remember  an  old  scholastic  aphorism,  which  says  "that 
the  man  who  lives  wholly  detached  from  others,  must  be  either 
an  angel  or  a  devil."  When  I  see  in  any  of  these  detached  gen- 
tlemen of  our  times  the  angelic  purity,  power,  and  beneficence, 
I  shall  admit  them  to  be  angels.  In  the  mean  time  we  are  born 
)nly  to  be  men.  We  shall  do  enough  if  we  form  ourselves  to  be 
good  ones.  It  is  therefore  our  business  carefully  to  cultivate  in 
our  minds,  to  rear  to  the  most  perfect  vigor  and  maturity,  every 
sort  of  generous  and  honest  feeling  that  belongs  to  our  nature. 
To  bring  the  dispositions  that  are  lovely  in  private  life  into  the 
service  and  conduct  of  the  commonwealth ;  so  to  be  patriots,  as 
not  to  forget  we  are  gentlemen.  To  cultivate  friendships,  and 
to  incur  enmities.  To  have  both  strong,  but  both  selected;  in 
the  one,  to  be  placable,  — in  the  other,  immovable.  To  model 
our  principles  to  our  duties  and  our  situation.  To  be  fully  per- 
suaded that  all  virtue  which  is  impracticable  is  spurious;  and 
rather  to  run  the  risk  of  falling  into  faults  in  a  course  which 
leads  us  to  act  with  effect  and  energy,  than  to  loiter  out  our 
days  without  blame  and  without  use.  Public  life  is  a  situation 
of  power  and  energy;  he  trespasses  against  his  duty  who  sleeps 
upon  his  watch,  as  well  as  he  that  goes  over  to  the  enemy.  .  .  . 

REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION  IN  FRANCE 

1790 

[On  the  anniversary  of  the  landing  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  in  the  Revo- 
lution of  1688,  the  members  of  the  Revolution  Society  listened  to  a  sermon 
(Nov.  4,  1789)  in  the  Meeting-house  in  the  Old  Jewry,  preached  by  Dr. 
Richard  Price,  a  nonconformist  divine,  who  expressed  great  admiration 
for  the  leaders  of  the  Revolution  in  France  (see  Burke's  quotation  from 
the  sermon,  page  581 ,  below).  This  aroused  Burke,  who  had  from  the  first 
been  hostile  to  the  Revolution,  and  for  a  year  he  labored  on  a  reply,  which 
came  out  as  the  Reflections,  addressed  to  a  French  gentleman,  M.  Dupont, 
who  had  asked  his  opinion  of  the  Revolution.  The  book  went  through 
eleven  editions  within  a  year,  and  created  an  extraordinary  sensation.  The 
famous  passage  on  Marie  Antoinette  (page  588)  was  ridiculed  by  Francis 
as  "  pure  foppery,"  but  Burke  declared  that  the  "  tears  came  again  into  my 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION       577 

eyes,  almost  as  often  as  I  looked  at  the  description;  they  may  again. 
My  friend,  I  tell  you  it  is  truth,  and  that  it  is  true,  and  will  be  true,  when 
you  and  I  are  no  more."  The  Reflections  are  not  divided  into  sections; 
the  extracts  here  reproduced  will  be  found  in  the  Bohn  Library  Edition  of 
Burke's  Works,  vol.  II,  pp.  331-352.  For  Paine's  reply,  see  pages  616-23, 
below.] 

.  .  .  FAR  am  I  from  denying  in  theory,  full  as  far  is  my  heart 
from  withholding  in  practice  (if  I  were  of  power  to  give  or  to 
withhold),  the  real  rights  of  men.  In  denying  their  false  claims  of 
right,  I  do  not  mean  to  injure  those  which  are  real  and  are  such 
as  their  pretended  rights  would  totally  destroy.  If  civil  society 
be  made  for  the  advantage  of  man,  all  the  advantages  for  which 
it  is  made  become  his  right.  It  is  an  institution  of  beneficence, 
and  law  itself  is  only  beneficence  acting  by  a  rule.  Men  have  a 
right  to  live  by  that  rule;  they  have  a  right  to  justice,  as  be- 
tween their  fellows,  whether  their  fellows  are  in  politic  func- 
tion or  in  ordinary  occupation.  They  have  a  right  to  the  fruits 
of  their  industry,  and  to  the  means  of  making  their  industry 
fruitful.  They  have  a  right  to  the  acquisitions  of  their  parents; 
to  the  nourishment  and  improvement  of  their  offspring;  to  in- 
struction in  life,  and  to  consolation  in  death.  Whatever  each 
man  can  separately  do,  without  trespassing  upon  others,  he  has 
a  right  to  do  for  himself;  and  he  has  a  right  to  a  fair  portion  of 
all  which  society,  with  all  its  combinations  of  skill  and  force,  can 
do  in  his  favor.  In  this  partnership  all  men  have  equal  rights, 
but  not  to  equal  things.  He  that  has  but  five  shillings  in  the 
partnership,  has  as  good  a  right  to  it  as  he  that  has  five  hundred 
pounds  has  to  his  larger  proportion.  But  he  has  not  a  right  to 
an  equal  dividend  in  the  product  of  the  joint  stock;  and  as  to 
the  share  of  power,  authority,  and  direction  which  each  indi- 
vidual ought  to  have  in  the  management  of  the  state,  that  I 
must  deny  to  be  amongst  the  direct  original  rights  of  man  in 
civil  society;  for  I  have  in  my  contemplation  the  civil  social 
man,  and  no  other.  It  is  a  thing  to  be  settled  by  convention. 

If  civil  society  be  the  offspring  of  convention,  that  convention 
must  be  its  law.  That  convention  must  limit  and  modify  all  the 
descriptions  of  constitution  which  are  formed  under  it.  Every 
sort  of  legislative,  judicial,  or  executory  power  are  its  creatures. 
They  can  have  no  being  in  any  other  state  of  things;  and  how 
can  any  man  claim,  under  the  conventions  of  civil  society, 


578  EDMUND  BURKE 

rights  which  do  not  so  much  as  suppose  its  existence?  rights 
which  are  absolutely  repugnant  to  it?  One  of  the  first  motives 
to  civil  society,  and  which  becomes  one  of  its  fundamental 
rules,  is  that  no  man  should  be  judge  in  his  own  cause.  By  this 
each  person  has  at  once  divested  himself  of  the  first  funda- 
mental right  of  uncovenanted  man,  that  is,  to  judge  for  him- 
self, and  to  assert  his  own  cause.  He  abdicates  all  right  to  be 
his  own  governor.  He  inclusively,  in  a  great  measure,  aban- 
dons the  right  of  self-defense,  the  first  law  of  nature.  Men  can- 
not enjoy  the  rights  of  an  uncivil  and  of  a  civil  state  together. 
That  he  may  obtain  justice,  he  gives  up  his  right  of  determining 
what  it  is  in  points  the  most  essential  to  him.  That  he  may 
secure  some  liberty,  he  makes  a  surrender  in  trust  of  the  whole 
of  it 

Government  is  not  made  in  virtue  of  natural  rights,  which 
may  and  do  exist  in  total  independence  of  it,  and  exist  in  much 
greater  clearness,  and  in  a  much  greater  degree  of  abstract  per- 
fection; but  their  abstract  perfection  is  their  practical  defect. 
By  having  a  right  to  everything  they  want  everything.  Gov- 
ernment is  a  contrivance  of  human  wisdom  to  provide  for  human 
•wants.  Men  have  a  right  that  these  wants  should  be  provided 
for  by  this  wisdom.  Among  these  wants  is  to  be  reckoned  the 
want,  out  of  civil  society,  of  a  sufficient  restraint  upon  their 
passions.  Society  requires  not  only  that  the  passions  of  indi- 
viduals should  be  subjected,  but  that  even  in  the  mass  and 
body,  as  well  as  in  the  individuals,  the  inclinations  of  men 
should  frequently  be  thwarted,  their  will  controlled,  and  their 
passions  brought  into  subjection.  This  can  only  be  done  by  a 
power  out  of  themselves,  and  not,  in  the  exercise  of  its  function, 
subject  to  that  will  and  to  those  passions  which  it  is  its  office  to 
bridle  and  subdue.  In  this  sense  the  restraints  on  men,  as  well 
as  their  liberties,  are  to  be  reckoned  amongst  their  rights.  But 
as  the  liberties  and  the  restrictions  vary  with  times  and  cir- 
cumstances, and  admit  of  infinite  modifications,  they  cannot 
be  settled  upon  any  abstract  rule;  and  nothing  is  so  foolish  as 
to  discuss  them  upon  that  principle. 

The  moment  you  abate  anything  from  the  full  rights  of  men 
each  to  govern  himself,  and  suffer  any  artificial,  positive  limi- 
tation upon  those  rights,  from  that  moment  the  whole  organi- 
zation of  government  becomes  a  consideration  of  convenience. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION       579 

This  it  is  which  makes  the  constitution  of  a  state,  and  the  due 
distribution  of  its  powers,  a  matter  of  the  most  delicate  and 
complicated  skill.  It  requires  a  deep  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture and  human  necessities,  and  of  the  things  which  facilitate 
or  obstruct  the  various  ends  which  are  to  be  pursued  by  the 
mechanism  of  civil  institutions.  The  state  is  to  have  recruits  to 
its  strength,  and  remedies  to  its  distempers.  What  is  the  use 
of  discussing  a  man's  abstract  right  to  food  or  medicine?  The 
question  is  upon  the  method  of  procuring  and  administering 
them.  In  that  deliberation  I  shall  always  advise  to  call  in  the 
aid  of  the  farmer  and  the  physician,  rather  than  the  professor  of 
metaphysics. 

The  science  of  constructing  a  commonwealth,  or  renovating 
it,  or  reforming  it,  is,  like  every  other  experimental  science,  not 
to  be  taught  a  priori.  Nor  is  it  a  short  experience  that  can  in- 
struct us  in  that  practical  science;  because  the  real  effects  of 
moral  causes  are  not  always  immediate;  but  that  which  in  the 
first  instance  is  prejudicial  may  be  excellent  in  its  remoter 
operation,  and  its  excellence  may  arise  even  from  the  ill  effects 
it  produces  in  the  beginning.  The  reverse  also  happens;  and 
very  plausible  schemes,  with  very  pleasing  commencements, 
have  often  shameful  and  lamentable  conclusions.  In  states 
there  are  often  some  obscure  and  almost  latent  causes,  things 
which  appear  at  first  view  of  little  moment,  on  which  a  very 
great  part  of  its  prosperity  or  adversity  may  most  essentially 
depend.  The  science  of  government  being  therefore  so  practi- 
cal in  itself,  and  intended  for  such  practical  purposes,  a  mat- 
ter which  requires  experience,  and  even  more  experience  than 
any  person  can  gain  in  his  whole  life,  however  sagacious  and 
observing  he  may  be,  —  it  is  with  infinite  caution  that  any 
man  ought  to  venture  upon  pulling  down  an  edifice  which  has 
answered  in  any  tolerable  degree  for  ages  the  common  purposes 
of  society,  or  on  building  it  up  again  without  having  models 
and  patterns  of  approved  utility  before  his  eyes. 

These  metaphysic  rights,  entering  into  common  life  like 
rays  of  light  which  pierce  into  a  dense  medium,  are,  by  the 
laws  of  nature,  refracted  from  their  straight  line.  Indeed  in  the 
gross  and  complicated  mass  of  human  passions  and  concerns, 
the  primitive  rights  of  men  undergo  such  a  variety  of  refrac- 
tions and  reflections,  that  it  becomes  absurd  to  talk  of  them  as 


580  EDMUND  BURKE 

if  they  continued  in  the  simplicity  of  their  original  direction. 
The  nature  of  man  is  intricate;  the  objects  of  society  are  of  the 
greatest  possible  complexity:  and  therefore  no  simple  disposi- 
tion or  direction  of  power  can  be  suitable  either  to  man's 
nature,  or  to  the  quality  of  his  affairs.  When  I  hear  the  sim- 
plicity of  contrivance  aimed  at  and  boasted  of  in  any  new  politi- 
cal constitutions,  I  am  at  no  loss  to  decide  that  the  artificers  are 
grossly  ignorant  of  their  trade,  or  totally  negligent  of  their 
duty.  The  simple  governments  are  fundamentally  defective,  to 
say  no  worse  of  them.  If  you  were  to  contemplate  society  in  but 
one  point  of  view,  all  these  simple  modes  of  polity  are  infinitely 
captivating.  In  effect  each  would  answer  its  single  end  much 
more  perfectly  than  the  more  complex  is  able  to  attain  all  its 
complex  purposes.  But  it  is  better  that  the  whole  should  be 
imperfectly  and  anomalously  answered,  than  that,  while  some 
parts  are  provided  for  with  great  exactness,  others  might  be 
totally  neglected,  or  perhaps  materially  injured,  by  the  over- 
care  of  a  favorite  member. 

The  pretended  rights  of  these  theorists  are  all  extremes;  and 
in  proportion  as  they  are  metaphysically  true,  they  are  morally 
and  politically  false.  The  rights  of  men  are  in  a  sort  of  middle, 
incapable  of  definition,  but  not  impossible  to  be  discerned.  The 
rights  of  men  in  governments  are  their  advantages ;  and  these 
are  often  in  balances  between  differences  of  good,  in  compro- 
mises sometimes  between  good  and  evil,  and  sometimes  be- 
tween evil  and  evil.  Political  reason  is  a  computing  principle; 
adding,  subtracting,  multiplying,  and  dividing,  morally,  and  not 
metaphysically  or  mathematically,  true  moral  denominations. 

By  these  theorists  the  right  of  the  people  is  almost  always 
sophistically  confounded  with  their  power.  The  body  of  the 
community,  whenever  it  can  come  to  act,  can  meet  with  no 
effectual  resistance;  but  till  power  and  right  are  the  same,  the 
whole  body  of  them  has  no  right  inconsistent  with  virtue,  and 
the  first  of  all  virtues,  prudence.  Men  have  no  right  to  what  is 
not  reasonable,  and  to  what  is  not  for  their  benefit;  for  though 
a  pleasant  writer  said,  Liceat  perire  poetis,1  when  one  of  them,  in 
cold  blood,  is  said  to  have  leaped  into  the  flames  of  a  volcanic 
revolution,  Ardentem  frigidus  jEtnam  insiluit,2 1  consider  such 

*  "Poets  have  a  right  to  perish." 

*  [Empedocles,]  himself  "  cold  [with  age?],  leaped  into  burning  ^Etna." 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION       581 

a  frolic  rather  as  an  unjustifiable  poetic  license  than  as  one  of 
the  franchises  of  Parnassus;  and  whether  he  were  poet,  or 
divine,  or  politician,  that  chose  to  exercise  this  kind  of  right,  I 
think  that  more  wise,  because  more  charitable,  thoughts  would 
urge  me  rather  to  save  the  man  than  to  preserve  his  brazen 
slippers  as  the  monuments  of  his  folly.  .  .  . 

Plots,  massacres,  assassinations,  seem  to  some  people  a  trivial 
price  for  obtaining  a  revolution.  A  cheap,  bloodless  reforma- 
tion, a  guiltless  liberty,  appear  flat  and  vapid  to  their  taste. 
There  must  be  a  great  change  of  scene;  there  must  be  a  magni- 
icent  stage  effect;  there  must  be  a  grand  spectacle  to  rouse  the 
Imagination,  grown  torpid  with  the  lazy  enjoyment  of  sixty 
years'  security,  and  the  still  unanimating  repose  of  public  pros- 
perity. The  preacher  found  them  all  in  the  French  Revolution. 
This  inspires  a  juvenile  warmth  through  his  whole  frame.  His 
enthusiasm  kindles  as  he  advances,  and  when  he  arrives  at  his 
peroration  it  is  in  a  full  blaze.  Then  viewing,  from  the  Pisgah 
of  his  pulpit,  the  free,  moral,  happy,  flourishing,  and  glorious 
state  of  France,  as  in  a  bird's-eye  landscape  of  a  promised  land, 
he  breaks  out  into  the  following  rapture :  — 

"What  an  eventful  period  is  this!  I  am  thankful  that  I  have 
lived  to  it;  I  could  almost  say,  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant 
depart  in  peace,  for  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation.  —  I  have 
lived  to  see  a  di/usion  of  knowledge,  which  has  undermined 
superstition  and  error.  —  I  have  lived  to  see  the  rights  of  men 
better  understood  than  ever,  and  nations  panting  for  liberty 
which  seemed  to  have  lost  the  idea  of  it.  —  I  have  lived  to  see 
thirty  millions  of  people,  indignant  and  resolute,  spurning  at 
slavery,  and  demanding  liberty  with  an  irresistible  voice;  their 
king  led  in  triumph,  and  an  arbitrary  monarch  surrendering  him- 
self to  his  subjects.1'  .  .  . 

I  find  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel  profaning  the  beautiful  and 
prophetic  ejaculation,  commonly  called  Nunc  dimittis,  made  on 
the  first  presentation  of  our  Saviour  in  the  temple,  and  apply- 
ing it,  with  an  inhuman  and  unnatural  rapture,  to  the  most 
horrid,  atrocious,  and  afflicting  spectacle  that  perhaps  ever  was 
exhibited  to  the  pity  and  indignation  of  mankind.  This  plead- 
ing in  triumph,"  a  thing  in  its  best  form  unmanly  and  irreligious, 
which  fills  our  preacher  with  such  unhallowed  transports,  must 
shock,  I  believe,  the  moral  taste  of  every  well-born  mind.  Sev- 


582  EDMUND  BURKE 

eral  English  were  the  stupefied  and  indignant  spectators  of  that 
triumph.  It  was  (unless  we  have  been  strangely  deceived)  a 
spectacle  more  resembling  a  procession  of  American  savages, 
entering  into  Onondaga  after  some  of  their  murders  called 
victories,  and  leading  into  hovels  hung  round  with  scalps  their 
captives,  overpowered  with  the  scoffs  and  buffets  of  women  as 
ferocious  as  themselves,  much  more  than  it  resembled  the  tri- 
umphal pomp  of  a  civilized  martial  nation; — if  a  civilized  na- 
tion, or  any  men  who  had  a  sense  of  generosity,  were  capable  of 
a  personal  triumph  over  the  fallen  and  afflicted. 

This,  my  dear  Sir,  was  not  the  triumph  of  France.  I  must  be- 
lieve that,  as  a  nation,  it  overwhelmed  you  with  shame  and 
horror.  I  must  believe  that  the  National  Assembly  find  them- 
selves in  a  state  of  the  greatest  humiliation  in  not  being  able  to 
punish  the  authors  of  this  triumph,  or  the  actors  in  it;  and  that 
they  are  in  a  situation  in  which  any  inquiry  they  may  make 
upon  the  subject  must  be  destitute  even  of  the  appearance  of 
liberty  or  impartiality.  The  apology  of  that  assembly  is  found 
in  their  situation;  but  when  we  approve  what  they  must  bear, 
it  is  in  us  the  degenerate  choice  of  a  vitiated  mind. 

With  a  compelled  appearance  of  deliberation,  they  vote  un- 
der the  dominion  of  a  stern  necessity.  They  sit  in  the  heart,  as 
it  were,  of  a  foreign  republic;  they  have  their  residence  in  a  city 
whose  constitution  has  emanated  neither  from  the  charter  of 
their  king  nor  from  their  legislative  power.  They  are  sur- 
rounded by  an  army  not  raised  either  by  the  authority  of  their 
crown  or  by  their  command,  and  which,  if  they  should  order  to 
dissolve  itself,  would  instantly  dissolve  them.  There  they  sit, 
after  a  gang  of  assassins  had  driven  away  some  hundreds  of  the 
members;  whilst  those  who  held  the  same  moderate  principles, 
with  more  patience  or  better  hope,  continued  every  day  exposed 
to  outrageous  insults  and  murderous  threats.  There  a  majority, 
sometimes  real,  sometimes  pretended,  captive  itself,  compels 
a  captive  king  to  issue  as  royal  edicts,  at  third  hand,  the  pol- 
luted nonsense  of  their  most  licentious  and  giddy  coffee-houses. 
It  is  notorious  that  all  their  measures  are  decided  before  they 
are  debated.  It  is  beyond  doubt  that,  under  the  terror  of  the 
bayonet,  and  the  lamp-post,  and  the  torch  to  their  houses,  they 
are  obliged  to  adopt  all  the  crude  and  desperate  measures  sug- 
gested by  clubs  composed  of  a  monstrous  medley  of  all  condi- 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION        583 

lions,  tongues,  and  nations.  Among  these  are  found  persons 
in  comparison  of  whom  Catiline  would  be  thought  scrupulous, 
and  Cethegus  a  man  of  sobriety  and  moderation.  Nor  is  it  in 
these  clubs  alone  that  the  public  measures  are  deformed  into 
monsters.  They  undergo  a  previous  distortion  in  academies, 
intended  as  so  many  seminaries  for  these  clubs,  which  are  set 
up  in  all  the  places  of  public  resort.  In  these  meetings  of  all 
sorts,  every  counsel,  in  proportion  as  it  is  daring,  and  violent, 
and  perfidious,  is  taken  for  the  mark  of  superior  genius.  Hu- 
manity and  compassion  are  ridiculed  as  the  fruits  of  supersti- 
tion and  ignorance.  Tenderness  to  individuals  is  considered  as 
treason  to  the  public.  Liberty  is  always  to  be  estimated  perfect 
as  property  is  rendered  insecure.  Amidst  assassination,  mas- 
sacre, and  confiscation,  perpetrated  or  meditated,  they  are 
forming  plans  for  the  good  order  of  future  society.  Embracing 
in  their  arms  the  carcases  of  base  criminals,  and  promoting 
their  relations  on  the  title  of  their  offenses,  they  drive  hundreds 
of  virtuous  persons  to  the  same  end,  by  forcing  them  to  subsist 
by  beggary  or  by  crime. 

The  Assembly,  their  organ,  acts  before  them  the  farce  of  de- 
liberation with  as  little  decency  as  liberty.  They  act  like  the 
comedians  of  a  fair  before  a  riotous  audience;  they  act  amidst 
the  tumultuous  cries  of  a  mixed  mob  of  ferocious  men,  and  of 
women  lost  to  shame,  who,  according  to  their  insolent  fancies, 
direct,  control,  applaud,  explode  them,  and  sometimes  mix  and 
take  their  seats  amongst  them,  domineering  over  them  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  servile  petulance  and  proud,  presumptuous 
authority.  As  they  have  inverted  order  in  all  things,  the  gallery 
is  in  the  place  of  the  house.  This  assembly,  which  overthrows 
kings  and  kingdoms,  has  not  even  the  physiognomy  and  aspect 
of  a  grave  legislative  body — nee  color  imperil,  necfrons  erat  ulla 
senatus.1  They  have  a  power  given  to  them,  like  that  of  the  evil 
principle,  to  subvert  and  destroy;  but  none  to  construct,  except 
such  machines  as  maybe  fitted  for  further  subversion  and  fur- 
ther destruction. 

Who  is  it  that  admires,  and  from  the  heart  is  attached  to,  na- 
tional representative  assemblies,  but  must  turn  with  horror  and 
disgust  from  such  a  profane  burlesque  and  abominable  perver- 
sion of  that  sacred  institute?  Lovers  of  monarchy,  lovers  of  re- 

i  "There  was  neither  the  complexion  of  empire  nor  any  appearance  of  a  senate." 


584  EDMUND  BURKE 

publics,  must  alike  abhor  it.  The  members  of  your  Assembly 
must  themselves  groan  under  the  tyranny  of  which  they  have 
all  the  shame,  none  of  the  direction,  and  little  of  the  profit. 
I  am  sure  many  of  the  members  who  compose  even  the  majority 
of  that  body  must  feel  as  I  do,  notwithstanding  the  applauses  o 
the  Revolution  Society.  Miserable  king!  miserable  assembly1 
How  must  that  assembly  be  silently  scandalized  with  those  of 
their  members  who  could  call  a  day  which  seemed  to  blot  the 
sun  out  of  the  heavens,  "un  beau  jour"!  How  must  they  be  in- 
wardly indignant  at  hearing  others,  who  thought  fit  to  declare 
to  them  "  that  the  vessel  of  the  state  would  fly  forward  in  her 
course  towards  regeneration  with  more  speed  than  ever,"  from 
the  stiff  gale  of  treason  and  murder  which  preceded  our  preach- 
er's triumph!  What  must  they  have  felt,  whilst,  with  outward 
patience  and  inward  indignation,  they  heard  of  the  slaughter  of 
innocent  gentlemen  in  their  houses,  that  "  the  blood  spilled  was 
not  the  most  pure  " !  What  must  they  have  felt,  when  they  were 
besieged  by  complaints  of  disorder  which  shook  their  country 
to  its  foundations,  at  being  compelled  coolly  to  tell  the  com- 
plainants that  they  were  under  the  protection  of  the  law,  and 
that  they  would  address  the  king  (the  captive  king)  to  cause 
the  laws  to  be  enforced  for  their  protection ;  when  the  enslaved 
ministers  of  that  captive  king  had  formally  notified  to  them  that 
there  was  neither  law,  nor  authority,  nor  power  left  to  protect! 
What  they  must  have  felt  at  being  obliged,  as  a  felicitation  on 
the  present  new  year,  to  request  their  captive  king  to  forget  the 
stormy  period  of  the  last,  on  account  of  the  great  good  which  k?, 
was  likely  to  produce  to  his  people;  to  the  complete  attainment 
of  which  good  they  adjourned  the  practical  demonstrations  of 
their  loyalty,  assuring  him  of  their  obedience,  when  he  should 
no  longer  possess  any  authority  to  command! 

This  address  was  made  with  much  good-nature  and  affection, 
to  be  sure.  But  among  the  revolutions  in  France  must  be  reck- 
oned a  considerable  revolution  in  their  ideas  of  politeness.  In 
England  we  are  said  to  learn  manners  at  second-hand  from  your 
side  of  the  water,  and  that  we  dress  our  behavior  in  the  frippery 
of  France.  If  so,  we  are  still  in  the  old  cut,  and  have  not  so  far 
conformed  to  the  new  Parisian  mode  of  good  breeding  as  to 
think  it  quite  in  the  most  refined  strain  of  delicate  compliment 
(whether  in  condolence  or  congratulation)  to  say,  to  the  most 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION       585 

humiliated  creature  that  crawls  upon  the  earth,  that  great  pub- 
lic benefits  are  derived  from  the  murder  of  his  servants,  the 
attempted  assassination  of  himself  and  of  his  wife,  and  the 
mortification,  disgrace,  and  degradation  that  he  has  personally 
suffered.  It  is  a  topic  of  consolation  which  our  ordinary  of 
Newgate  would  be  too  humane  to  use  to  a  criminal  at  the  foot  of 
the  gallows.  I  should  have  thought  that  the  hangman  of  Paris, 
now  that  he  is  liberalized  by  the  vote  of  the  National  Assembly, 
and  is  allowed  his  rank  and  arms  in  the  Heralds'  College  of  the 
Rights  of  Men,  would  be  too  generous,  too  gallant  a  man,  too 
full  of  the  sense  of  his  new  dignity,  to  employ  that  cutting  con- 
solation to  any  of  the  persons  whom  the  Use  nation  might  bring 
under  the  administration  of  his  executive  power. 

A  man  is  fallen  indeed,  when  he  is  thus  flattered.  The  ano- 
dyne draught  of  oblivion,  thus  drugged,  is  well  calculated  to 
preserve  a  galling  wakefulness,  and  to  feed  the  living  ulcer  of  a 
corroding  memory.  Thus  to  administer  the  opiate  potion  of 
amnesty,  powdered  with  all  the  ingredients  of  scorn  and  con- 
tempt, is  to  hold  to  his  lips,  instead  of "  the  balm  of  hurt  minds," 
the  cup  of  human  misery  full  to  the  brim,  and  to  force  him  to 
drink  it  to  the  dregs. 

Yielding  to  reasons  at  least  as  forcible  as  those  which  were 
so  delicately  urged  in  the  compliment  on  the  new  year,  the  king 
of  France  will  probably  endeavor  to  forget  these  events  and 
that  compliment.  But  History,  who  keeps  a  durable  record  of 
all  our  acts,  and  exercises  her  awful  censure  over  the  proceed- 
ings of  all  sorts  of  sovereigns,  will  not  forget  either  those  events 
or  the  era  of  this  liberal  refinement  in  the  intercourse  of  man- 
kind. History  will  record  that,  on  the  morning  of  the  6th  of 
October,  1789,  the  King  and  Queen  of  France,  after  a  day  of 
confusion,  alarm,  dismay,  and  slaughter,  lay  down,  under  the 
pledged  security  of  public  faith,  to  indulge  nature  in  a  few  hours 
of  respite,  and  troubled,  melancholy  repose.  From  this  sleep 
the  queen  was  first  startled  by  the  voice  of  the  sentinel  at  her 
door,  who  cried  out  to  her  to  save  herself  by  flight  —  that  this 
was  the  last  proof  of  fidelity  he  could  give  —  that  they  were 
upon  him,  and  he  was  dead.  Instantly  he  was  cut  down.  A 
band  of  cruel  ruffians  and  assassins,  reeking  with  his  blood, 
rushed  into  the  chamber  of  the  queen,  and  pierced  with  a  hun- 
dred strokes  of  bayonets  and  poniards  the  bed,  from  whence 


586  EDMUND   BURKE 

this  persecuted  woman  had  but  just  time  to  fly  almost  naked, 
and,  through  ways  unknown  to  the  murderers,  had  escaped  to 
seek  refuge  at  the  feet  of  a  king  and  husband,  not  secure  of  his 
own  life  for  a  moment. 

This  king,  to  say  no  more  of  him,  and  this  queen,  and  their 
infant  children,  who  once  would  have  been  the  pride  and  hope 
of  a  great  and  generous  people,  were  then  forced  to  abandon 
the  sanctuary  of  the  most  splendid  palace  in  the  world,  which 
they  left  swimming  in  blood,  polluted  by  massacre,  and  strewed 
with  scattered  limbs  and  mutilated  carcases.  Thence  they  were 
conducted  into  the  capital  of  their  kingdom.  Two  had  been 
selected  from  the  unprovoked,  unresisted,  promiscuous  slaugh- 
ter which  was  made  of  the  gentlemen  of  birth  and  family  who 
composed  the  king's  body-guard.  These  two  gentlemen,  with 
all  the  parade  of  an  execution  of  justice,  were  cruelly  and  pub- 
licly dragged  to  the  block,  and  beheaded  in  the  great  court 
of  the  palace.  Their  heads  were  stuck  upon  spears,  and  led  the 
procession ;  whilst  the  royal  captives  who  followed  in  the  train 
were  slowly  moved  along,  amidst  the  horrid  yells,  and  shrilling 
screams,  and  frantic  dances,  and  infamous  contumelies,  and  all 
the  unutterable  abominations  of  the  furies  of  hell,  in  the  abused 
shape  of  the  vilest  of  women.  After  they  had  been  made  to 
taste,  drop  by  drop,  more  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  in  the 
slow  torture  of  a  journey  of  twelve  miles,  protracted  to  six 
hours,  they  were,  under  a  guard  composed  of  those  very  sol- 
diers who  had  thus  conducted  them  through  this  famous  tri- 
umph, lodged  in  one  of  the  old  palaces  of  Paris,  now  con  verted 
into  a  Bastille  for  kings. 

Is  this  a  triumph  to  be  consecrated  at  altars?  to  be  commem- 
orated with  grateful  thanksgiving,  to  be  offered  to  the  Divine 
Humanity  with  fervent  prayer  and  enthusiastic  ejaculation?  — 
These  Theban  and  Thracian  orgies,  acted  in  France,  and  ap- 
plauded only  in  the  Old  Jewry,  I  assure  you,  kindle  prophetic 
enthusiasm  in  the  minds  but  of  very  few  people  in  this  king- 
dom; although  a  saint  and  apostle,  who  may  have  revelations 
Df  his  own,  and  who  has  so  completely  vanquished  all  the  mean 
superstitions  of  the  heart,  may  incline  to  think  it  pious  and 
decorous  to  compare  it  with  the  entrance  into  the  world  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace,  proclaimed  in  an  holy  temple  by  a  venerable 
sage,  and  not  long  before  not  worse  announced  by  the  voice  of 
angels  to  the  quiet  innocence  of  shepherds.  .  .  . 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION       587 

Although  this  work  of  our  new  light  and  knowledge  did  not  go 
to  the  length  that  in  all  probability  it  was  intended  it  should  be 
carried,  yet  I  must  think  that  such  treatment  of  any  human 
creatures  must  be  shocking  to  any  but  those  who  are  made  for 
accomplishing  revolutions.  But  I  cannot  stop  here.  Influenced 
by  the  inborn  feelings  oi  my  nature,  and  not  being  illuminated 
by  a  single  ray  of  this  new-sprung  modern  light,  I  confess  to 
you,  Sir,  that  the  exalted  rank  of  the  persons  suffering,  and 
particularly  the  sex,  the  beauty,  and  the  amiable  qualities  of 
the  descendant  of  so  many  kings  and  emperors,  with  the  tender 
age  of  royal  infants,  insensible  only  through  infancy  and  inno- 
cence of  the  cruel  outrages  to  which  their  parents  were  exposed, 
instead  of  being  a  subject  of  exultation,  adds  not  a  little  to  my 
sensibility  on  that  most  melancholy  occasion. 

I  hear  that  the  august  person  who  was  the  principal  object 
of  our  preacher's  triumph,  though  he  supported  himself,  felt 
much  on  that  shameful  occasion.  As  a  man,  it  became  him  to 
feel  for  his  wife  and  his  children,  and  the  faithful  guards  of  his 
person,  that  were  massacred  in  cold  blood  about  him;  as  a 
prince,  it  became  him  to  feel  for  the  strange  and  frightful  trans- 
formation of  his  civilized  subjects,  and  to  be  more  grieved  for 
them  than  solicitous  for  himself.  It  derogates  little  from  his 
fortitude,  while  it  adds  infinitely  to  the  honor  of  his  humanity. 
I  am  very  sorry  to  say  it,  very  sorry  indeed,  that  such  person- 
ages are  in  a  situation  in  which  it  is  not  becoming  in  us  to  praise 
the  virtues  of  the  great. 

I  hear,  and  I  rejoice  to  hear,  that  the  great  lady,  the  other 
object  of  the  triumph,  has  borne  that  day  (one  is  interested 
that  beings  made  for  suffering  should  suffer  well),  and  that  she 
bears  all  the  succeeding  days,  —  that  she  bears  the  imprison- 
ment of  her  husband,  and  her  own  captivity,  and  the  exile  of  her 
friends,  and  the  insulting  adulation  of  addresses,  and  the  whole 
weight  of  her  accumulated  wrongs,  with  a  serene  patience,  in  a 
manner  suited  to  her  rank  and  race,  and  becoming  the  offspring 
of  a  sovereign  distinguished  for  her  piety  and  her  courage;  that, 
like  her,  she  has  lofty  sentiments;  that  she  feels  with  the  dig- 
nity of  a  Roman  matron;  that  in  the  last  extremity  she  will 
save  herself  from  the  last  disgrace;  and  that,  if  she  must  fall, 
she  will  fall  by  no  ignoble  hand. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw  the  Queen  of 


588  EDMUND  BURKE 

France,  then  the  Dauphiness,  at  Versailles;  and  surely  never 
lighted  on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more 
delightful  vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating 
and  cheering  the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in,  - 
glittering  like  the  morning-star,  full  of  life  and  splendor  and 
joy.  Oh!  what  a  revolution!  and  what  a  heart  must  I  have  to 
contemplate  without  emotion  that  elevation  and  that  fall! 
Little  did  I  dream,  when  she  added  titles  of  veneration  to  those 
of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respectful  love,  that  she  should  ever 
be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace  concealed 
In  that  bosom ;  little  did  I  dream  that  I  should  have  lived  to  see 
such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a 
nation  of  men  of  honor,  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought  ten  thou- 
sand swords  must  have  leaped  from  their  scabbards  to  avenge 
even  a  look  that  threatened  her  with  insult.  But  the  age  of 
chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters,  economists,  and  calculat- 
ors has  succeeded;  and  the  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished 
forever.  Never,  never  more  shall  we  behold  that  generous 
loyalty  to  rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  dignified 
obedience,  that  subordination  of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive, 
even  in  servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The 
unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defense  of  nations,  the  nurse 
of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise,  is  gone !  It  is  gone, 
that  sensibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of  honor,  which  felt 
a  stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired  courage  whilst  it  miti- 
gated ferocity,  which  ennobled  whatever  it  touched,  and  under 
which  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil,  by  losing  all  its  grossness. 

This  mixed  system  of  opinion  and  sentiment  had  its  origin 
in  the  ancient  chivalry;  and  the  principle,  though  varied  in  its 
appearance  by  the  varying  state  of  human  affairs,  subsisted 
and  influenced  through  a  long  succession  of  generations,  even 
to  the  time  we  live  in.  If  it  should  ever  be  totally  extinguished, 
the  loss,  I  fear,  will  be  great.  It  is  this  which  has  given  its  char- 
acter to  modern  Europe.  It  is  this  which  has  distinguished  it 
jnder  all  its  forms  of  government,  and  distinguished  it  to  its 
advantage,  from  the  states  of  Asia,  and  possibly  from  those 
states  which  flourished  in  the  most  brilliant  periods  of  the 
antique  world.  It  was  this  which,  without  confounding  ranks, 
had  produced  a  noble  equality,  and  handed  it  down  through 
all  the  gradations  of  social  life.  It  was  this  opinion  which  miti-/ 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE   REVOLUTION       589 

gated  kings  into  companions,  and  raised  private  men  to  be  fel- 
lows with  kings.  Without  force  or  opposition,  it  subdued  the 
fierceness  of  pride  and  power;  it  obliged  sovereigns  to  submit  to 
the  soft  collar  of  social  esteem,  compelled  stern  authority  to 
submit  to  elegance,  and  gave  a  dominating  vanquisher  of  laws 
to  be  subdued  by  manners. 

But  now  all  is  to  be  changed.  All  the  pleasing  illusions  which 
made  power  gentle  and  obedience  liberal,  which  harmonized  the 
different  shades  of  life,  and  which,  by  a  bland  assimilation, 
incorporated  into  politics  the  sentiments  which  beautify  and 
soften  private  society,  are  to  be  dissolved  by  this  new  conquer- 
ing empire  of  light  and  reason.  All  the  decent  drapery  of  life 
is  to  be  rudely  torn  off.  All  the  superadded  ideas,  furnished 
from  the  wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  which  the  heart  owns, 
and  the  understanding  ratifies,  as  necessary  to  cover  the  de- 
fects of  our  naked,  shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to  dignity  in 
our  own  estimation,  are  to  be  exploded  as  a  ridiculous,  absurd, 
and  antiquated  fashion. 

On  this  scheme  of  things,  a  king  is  but  a  man,  a  queen  is  but 
a  woman;  a  woman  is  but  an  animal,  and  an  animal  not  of  the 
highest  order.  All  homage  paid  to  the  sex  in  general  as  such, 
and  without  distinct  views,  is  to  be  regarded  as  romance  and 
folly.  Regicide,  and  parricide,  and  sacrilege  are  but  fictions 
of  superstition,  corrupting  jurisprudence  by  destroying  its 
simplicity.  The  murder  of  a  king,  or  a  queen,  or  a  bishop,  or  a 
father  are  only  common  homicide;  and  if  the  people  are  by  any 
chance,  or  in  any  way,  gainers  by  it,  a  sort  of  homicide  much 
the  most  pardonable,  and  into  which  we  ought  not  to  make  too 
severe  a  scrutiny. 

On  the  scheme  of  this  barbarous  philosophy,  which  is  the 
offspring  of  cold  hearts  and  muddy  understandings,  and  which 
is  as  void  of  solid  wisdom  as  it  is  destitute  of  all  taste  and  ele- 
gance, laws  are  to  be  supported  only  by  their  own  terrors,  and 
by  the  concern  which  each  individual  may  find  in  them  from 
his  own  private  speculations,  or  can  spare  to  them  from  his  own 
private  interests.  In  the  groves  of  their  academy,  at  the  end  of 
every  vista,  you  see  nothing  but  the  gallows.  Nothing  is  left 
which  engages  the  affections  on  the  part  of  the  commonwealth. 
On  the  principles  of  this  mechanic  philosophy,  our  institutions 
can  never  be  embodied,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  in  persons, 


590  EDMUND  BURKE 

so  as  to  create  in  us  love,  veneration,  admiration,  or  attach- 
ment. But  that  sort  of  reason  which  banishes  the  affections  is 
incapable  of  filling  their  place.  These  public  affections,  com- 
bined with  manners,  are  required  sometimes  as  supplements, 
sometimes  as  correctives,  always  as  aids  to  law.  The  precept 
given  by  a  wise  man,  as  well  as  a  great  critic,  for  the  construc- 
tion of  poems,  is  equally  true  as  to  states:  Non  satis  est  pul- 
chra  esse  poemata,  dulcia  sunto.1  There  ought  to  be  a  system 
of  manners  in  every  nation,  which  a  well-formed  mind  would 
be  disposed  to  relish.  To  make  us  love  our  country,  our  country 
ought  to  be  lovely. 

But  power,  of  some  kind  or  other,  will  survive  the  shock  in 
which  manners  and  opinions  perish;  and  it  will  find  other  and 
worse  means  for  its  support.  The  usurpation  which,  in  order  to 
subvert  ancient  institutions,  has  destroyed  ancient  principles, 
will  hold  power  by  arts  similar  to  those  by  which  it  has  ac- 
quired it.  When  the  old  feudal  and  chivalrous  spirit  of  fealty, 
which,  by  freeing  kings  from  fear,  freed  both  kings  and  subjects 
from  the  precautions  of  tyranny,  shall  be  extinct  in  the  minds 
of  men,  plots  and  assassinations  will  be  anticipated  by  prevent- 
ive murder  and  preventive  confiscation,  and  that  long  roll  of 
grim  and  bloody  maxims,  which  form  the  political  code  of  all 
power  not  standing  on  its  own  honor  and  the  honor  of  those 
who  are  to  obey  it.  Kings  will  be  tyrants  from  policy,  when 
subjects  are  rebels  from  principle. 

When  ancient  opinions  and  rules  of  life  are  taken  away,  the 
loss  cannot  possibly  be  estimated.  From  that  moment  we  have 
no  compass  to  govern  us;  nor  can  we  know  distinctly  to  what 
port  we  steer.  Europe,  undoubtedly,  taken  in  a  mass,  was  in 
a  flourishing  condition  the  day  on  which  your  revolution  was 
completed.  How  much  of  that  prosperous  state  was  owing  to  the 
spirit  of  our  old  manners  and  opinions  is  not  easy  to  say;  but  as 
such  causes  cannot  be  indifferent  in  their  operation,  we  must 
presume  that,  on  the  whole,  their  operation  was  beneficial. 

We  are  but  too  apt  to  consider  things  in  the  state  in  which  we 
find  them,  without  sufficiently  adverting  to  the  causes  by 
which  they  have  been  produced,  and  possibly  may  be  upheld. 
Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  our  manners,  our  civiliza- 

1  "It  does  not  suffice  that  poems  should  be  beautiful;  they  must  be  charming."  — 
HORACE. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION        591 

tion,  and  all  the  good  things  which  are  connected  with  manners 
and  with  civilization,  have,  in  this  European  world  of  ours, 
depended  for  ages  upon  two  principles,  and  were  indeed  the 
result  of  both  combined:  I  mean  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman,  and 
the  spirit  of  religion.  The  nobility  and  the  clergy,  the  one  by 
profession,  the  other  by  patronage,  kept  learning  in  existence, 
even  in  the  midst  of  arms  and  confusions,  and  whilst  govern- 
ments were  rather  in  their  causes  than  formed.  Learning  paid 
back  what  it  received  to  no&lity  and  to  priesthood,  and  paid 
it  with  usury,  by  enlarging  their  ideas  and  by  furnishing  their 
minds.  Happy  if  they  had  all  continued  to  know  their  indis- 
soluble union,  and  their  proper  place!  Happy  if  learning,  not 
debauched  by  ambition,  had  been  satisfied  to  continue  the 
instructor,  and  not  aspired  to  be  the  master!  Along  with  its 
natural  protectors  and  guardians,  learning  will  be  cast  into  the 
mire,  and  trodden  down  under  the  hoofs  of  a  swinish  multitude. 

If,  as  I  suspect,  modern  letters  owe  more  than  they  are 
always  willing  to  own  to  ancient  manners,  so  do  other  interests 
which  we  value  full  as  much  as  they  are  worth.  Even  com- 
merce, and  trade,  and  manufacture,  the  gods  of  our  economical 
politicians,  are  themselves  perhaps  but  creatures;  are  them- 
selves but  effects,  which,  as  first  causes,  we  choose  to  worship. 
They  certainly  grew  under  the  same  shade  in  which  learning 
flourished.  They  too  may  decay  with  their  natural  protecting 
principles.  With  you,  for  the  present  at  least,  they  all  threaten 
to  disappear  together.  Where  trade  and  manufactures  are 
wanting  to  a  people,  and  the  spirit  of  nobility  and  religion 
remains,  sentiment  supplies,  and  not  always  ill  supplies,  their 
place;  but  if  commerce  and  the  arts  should  be  lost  in  an  experi- 
ment to  try  how  well  a  state  may  stand  without  these  old 
fundamental  principles,  what  sort  of  a  thing  must  be  a  nation  of 
gross,  stupid,  ferocious,  and  at  the  same  time  poor  and  sordid, 
barbarians,  destitute  of  religion,  honor,  or  manly  pride,  possess- 
ing nothing  at  present,  and  hoping  for  nothing  hereafter? 

I  wish  you  may  not  be  going  fast,  and  by  the  shortest  cut, 
to  that  horrible  and  disgustful  situation.  Already  there  appears 
a  poverty  of  conception,  a  coarseness  and  vulgarity,  in  all  the 
proceedings  of  the  Assembly  and  of  all  their  instructors.  Their 
liberty  is  not  liberal.  Their  science  is  presumptuous  ignorance. 
Their  humanity  is  savage  and  brutal. 


592  EDMUND   BURKE 

It  is  not  clear  whether  in  England  we  learned  those  grand  and 
decorous  principles  and  manners,  of  which  considerable  traces 
yet  remain,  from  you,  or  whether  you  took  them  from  us.  But 
to  you,  I  think,  we  trace  them  best.  You  seem  to  me  to  be 
gentis  incunabula  nostrcz.1  France  has  always  more  or  less  influ- 
enced manners  in  England;  and  when  your  fountain  is  choked 
up  and  polluted,  the  stream  will  not  run  long,  or  not  run  clear, 
with  us,  or  perhaps  with  any  nation.  This  gives  all  Europe,  in 
my  opinion,  but  too  close  and  connected  a  concern  in  what  is 
done  in  France.  Excuse  me,  therefore,  if  I  have  dwelt  too  long 
on  the  atrocious  spectacle  of  the  6th  of  October,  1789,  or  have 
given  too  much  scope  to  the  reflections  which  have  arisen  in  my 
mind  on  occasion  of  the  most  important  of  all  revolutions, 
which  may  be  dated  from  that  day,  —  I  mean  a  revolution  in 
sentiments,  manners,  and  moral  opinions.  As  things  now  stand, 
with  everything  respectable  destroyed  without  us,  and  an  at- 
tempt to  destroy  within  us  every  principle  of  respect,  one  is 
almost  forced  to  apologize  for  harboring  the  common  feelings 
of  men.  .  .  . 

A    LETTER    FROM    THE    RIGHT    HON.    EDMUND 
BURKE,   TO  A   NOBLE  LORD 

ON  THE  ATTACKS  MADE  UPON  HIM  AND  HIS  PENSION,  IN 
THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS,  BY  THE  DUKE  OF  BEDFORD  AND 
THE  EARL  OF  LAUDERDALE,  EARLY  IN  THE  PRESENT 
SESSION  OF  PARLIAMENT 

1796 

[In  1794  the  Government  proposed  to  make  Burke  a  peer,  in  recognition 
of  his  long  services  to  the  state,  but  on  the  death  of  his  son,  which  left  him 
childless,  the  project  was  abandoned,  and  instead  a  pension  of  £3700  a 
year  was  conferred  by  the  Crown.  "By  and  by,  when  the  resentment  of 
the  Opposition  was  roused  to  the  highest  pitch  by  the  infamous  Treason 
and  Sedition  bills  of  1795,  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  Lord  Lauderdale, 
seeking  to  accumulate  every  possible  complaint  against  the  Government, 
assailed  the  grant  to  Burke,  as  made  without  the  consent  of  Parliament, 
and  as  a  violent  contradiction  to  the  whole  policy  of  the  plan  for  economic 
reform.  The  attack,  if  not  justifiable  in  itself,  came  from  an  unlucky 
quarter.  A  chief  of  the  house  of  Bedford  was  the  most  unfit  person  in  the 
world  to  protest  against  grants  by  favor  of  the  Crown.  Burke  was  too 
1  "The  cradle  of  our  race." 


LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD     S93 

practiced  a  rhetorician  not  to  see  the  opening,  and  his  Letter  to  a  Noble 
Lord  is  the  most  splendid  repartee  in  the  English  language."  (Morley: 
Burke,  p.  198.)] 

.  .  .  ASTRONOMERS  have  supposed  that  if  a  certain  comet, 
whose  path  intersected  the  ecliptic,  had  met  the  earth  in  some 
(I  forget  what)  sign,  it  would  have  whirled  us  along  with  it,  in 
its  eccentric  course,  into  God  knows  what  regions  of  heat  and 
cold.  Had  the  portentous  comet  of  the  Rights  of  Man,  which 
"from  its  horrid  hair  shakes  pestilence  and  war,"  and  "with 
fear  of  change  perplexes  monarchs,"  -  had  that  comet  crossed 
upon  us  in  that  internal  state  of  England,  nothing  human  could 
have  prevented  our  being  irresistibly  hurried  out  of  the  high- 
way of  heaven,  into  all  the  vices,  crimes,  horrors,  and  miseries 
of  the  French  Revolution. 

Happily,  France  was  not  then  Jacobinized.  Her  hostility  was 
at  a  good  distance.  We  had  a  limb  cut  off,  but  we  preserved 
the  body.  We  lost  our  colonies,  but  we  kept  our  constitution. 
There  was,  indeed,  much  intestine  heat;  there  was  a  dreadful 
fermentation.  Wild  and  savage  insurrection  quitted  the  woods, 
and  prowled  about  our  streets  in  the  name  of  Reform.  Such  was 
the  distemper  of  the  public  mind  that  there  was  no  madman,  in 
his  maddest  ideas  and  maddest  projects,  who  might  not  count 
upon  numbers  to  support  his  principles  and  execute  his  designs. 

Many  of  the  changes,  by  a  great  misnomer  called  parlia- 
mentary reforms,  went,  not  in  the  intention  of  all  the  professors 
and  supporters  of  them,  undoubtedly,  but  went  in  their  cer- 
tain, and,  in  my  opinion,  not  very  remote  effect,  home  to  the 
utter  destruction  of  the  constitution  of  this  kingdom.  Had 
they  taken  place,  not  France,  but  England,  would  have  had 
the  honor  of  leading  up  the  death-dance  of  democratic  revolu- 
tion. Other  projects,  exactly  coincident  in  time  with  those, 
struck  at  the  very  existence  of  the  kingdom  under  any  consti- 
tution. There  are  who  remember  the  blind  fury  of  some,  and 
the  lamentable  helplessness  of  others;  here,  a  torpid  confusion, 
from  a  panic  fear  of  the  danger;  there,  the  same  inaction  from 
a  stupid  insensibility  to  it;  here,  well-wishers  to  the  mischief; 
there,  indifferent  lookers-on.  At  the  same  time,  a  sort  of  na- 
tional convention,  dubious  in  its  nature,  and  perilous  in  its 
example,  nosed  Parliament  in  the  very  seat  of  its  authority,  sat 
with  a  sort  of  superintendence  over  it,  and  little  less  than  die- 


594  EDMUND   BURKE 

tated  to  it,  not  only  laws,  but  the  very  form  and  essence  of 
legislature  itself.  In  Ireland  things  ran  in  a  still  more  eccentric 
course.  Government  was  unnerved,  confounded,  and  in  a 
manner  suspended.  Its  equipoise  was  totally  gone.  I  do  not 
mean  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  Lord  North.  He  was  a  man  of 
admirable  parts,  of  general  knowledge,  of  a  versatile  under- 
standing fitted  for  every  sort  of  business,  of  infinite  wit  and 
pleasantry,  of  a  delightful  temper,  and  with  a  mind  most  per- 
fectly disinterested.  But  it  would  be  only  to  degrade  myself  by 
a  weak  adulation,  and  not  to  honor  the  memory  of  a  great  man, 
to  deny  that  he  wanted  something  of  the  vigilance  and  spirit 
of  command,  that  the  time  required.  Indeed  a  darkness,  next 
to  the  fog  of  this  awful  day,  lowered  over  the  whole  region.  For 
a  little  time  the  helm  appeared  abandoned  — 

Ipse  diem  noctemque  negat  discernere  coelo, 
Nee  meminisse  vice  media  Palinurus  in  undo,.1 

At  that  time  I  was  connected  with  men  of  high  place  in  the 
community.  They  loved  liberty  as  much  as  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford can  do,  and  they  understood  it  at  least  as  well.  Perhaps 
their  politics,  as  usual,  took  a  tincture  from  their  character, 
and  they  cultivated  what  they  loved.  The  liberty  they  pursued 
was  a  liberty  inseparable"  from  order,  from  virtue,  from  morals, 
and  from  religion,  and  was  neither  hypocritically  nor  fanatic- 
ally followed.  They  did  not  wish  that  liberty,  in  itself  one  of 
the  first  of  blessings,  should  in  its  perversion  become  the  great- 
est curse  which  could  fall  upon  mankind.  To  preserve  the  con- 
stitution entire,  and  practically  equal  to  all  the  great  ends  of 
its  formation,  not  in  one  single  part,  but  in  all  its  parts,  was  to 
them  the  first  object.  Popularity  and  power  they  regarded 
alike.  These  were  with  them  only  different  means  of  obtaining 
that  object,  and  had  no  preference  over  each  other  in  their 
minds,  but  as  one  or  the  other  might  afford  a  surer  or  a  less 
certain  prospect  of  arriving  at  that  end.  It  is  some  consolation 
to  me,  in  the  cheerless  gloom  which  darkens  the  evening  of  my 
life,  that  with  them  I  commenced  my  political  career,  and  never 
lor  a  moment,  in  reality  nor  in  appearance,  for  any  length  of 
time,  was  separated  from  their  good  wishes  and  good  opinion. 

By  what  accident  it  matters  not,  nor  upon  what  desert,  but 

1  "Palinurus  himself  says  he  cannot  distinguish  night  from  day,  nor  remember  the  way 
in  the  midst  of  the  ocean." 


LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD  595 

just  then,  and  in  the  midst  of  that  hunt  of  obloquy  which 
ever  has  pursued  me  with  a  full  cry  through  life,  I  had  obtained 
a  very  considerable  degree  of  public  confidence.   I  know  well 
enough  how  equivocal  a  test  this  kind  of  popular  opinion  forms 
of  the  merit  that  obtained  it.  I  am  no  stranger  to  the  insecurity 
of  its  tenure.  I  do  not  boast  of  it.  It  is  mentioned  to  show,  not 
how  highly  I  prize  the  thing,  but  my  right  to  value  the  use  I 
made  of  it.  I  endeavored  to  turn  that  short-lived  advantage  to 
myself  into  a  permanent  benefit  to  my  country.  Far  am  I  from 
detracting  from  the  merit  of  some  gentlemen,  out  of  office  or  in 
it,  on  that  occasion.  No!  —  It  is  not  my  way  to  refuse  a  full 
and  heaped  measure  of  justice  to  the  aids  that  I  receive.  I  have, 
through  life,  been  willing  to  give  everything  to  others,  and  to 
reserve  nothing  for  myself  but  the  inward  conscience  that  I 
had  omitted  no  pains  to  discover,  to  animate,  to  discipline,  to 
direct  the  abilities  of  the  country  for  its  service,  and  to  place 
them  in  the  best  light  to  improve  their  age,  or  to  adorn  it.  This 
conscience  I  have.    1  have  never  suppressed  any  man,  never 
checked  him  for  a  moment  in  his  course,  by  any  jealousy  or  by 
any  policy.  I  was  always  ready,  to  the  height  of  my  means  (and 
they  were  always  infinitely  below  my  desires),  to  forward  those 
abilities  which  overpowered  my  own.    He  is  an  ill-furnished 
undertaker  who  has  no  machinery  but  his  own  hands  to  work 
with.   Poor  in  my  own  faculties,  I  ever  thought  myself  rich  in 
theirs.   In  that  period  of  difficulty  and  danger  more  especially, 
I  consulted  and  sincerely  cooperated  with  men  of  all  parties 
who  seemed  disposed  to  the  same  ends,  or  to  any  main  part  of 
them.   Nothing  to  prevent  disorder  was  omitted;  when  it  ap- 
peared, nothing  to  subdue  it  was  left  uncounseled  nor  unex- 
ecuted, as  far  as  I  could  prevail.   At  the  time  I  speak  of,  and 
having  a  momentary  lead,  so  aided  and  so  encouraged,  and  as  a 
feeble  instrument  in  a  mighty  hand,  —  I  do  not  say  I  saved  my 
country;  I  am  sure  I  did  my  country  important  service.  There 
were  few,  indeed,  that  did  not  at  that  time  acknowledge  it;  and 
that  time  was  thirteen  years  ago.  It  was  but  one  voice,  that  no 
man  in  the  kingdom  better  deserved  an  honorable  provision 
should  be  made  for  him. 

So  much  for  my  general  conduct  through  the  whole  of  the 
portentous  crisis  from  1780  to  1782,  and  the  general  sense  then 
entertained  of  that  conduct  by  my  country.  But  my  character 


596  EDMUND   BURKE 

as  a  reformer,  in  the  particular  instances  which  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  refers  to,  is  so  connected  in  principle  with  my  opinions 
on  the  hideous  changes  which  have  since  barbarized  France, 
and,  spreading  thence,  threatened  the  political  and  moral  order 
of  the  whole  world,  that  it  seems  to  demand  something  of  a 
more  detailed  discussion. 

My  economical  reforms  were  not,  as  his  Grace  may  think,  the 
suppression  of  a  paltry  pension  or  employment,  more  or  less. 
Economy  in  my  plans  was,  as  it  ought  to  be,  secondary,  sub- 
ordinate, instrumental.  I  acted  on  state  principles.  I  found  a 
great  distemper  in  the  commonwealth,  and,  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  evil  and  of  the  object,  I  treated  it.  The  malady 
was  deep;  it  was  complicated,  in  the  causes  and  in  the  symp- 
toms. Throughout  it  was  full  of  contra-indicants.  On  one  hand, 
government,  daily  growing  more  invidious  from  an  apparent 
increase  of  the  means  of  strength,  was  every  day  growing  more 
contemptible  by  real  weakness.  Nor  was  this  dissolution  con- 
fined to  government  commonly  so  called.  It  extended  to  Parlia- 
ment, which  was  losing  not  a  little  in  its  dignity  and  estimation, 
by  an  opinion  of  its  not  acting  on  worthy  motives.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  desires  of  the  people  (partly  natural  and  partly  in- 
fused into  them  by  art)  appeared  in  so  wild  and  inconsiderate 
a  manner,  with  regard  to  the  economical  object  (for  I  set  aside 
for  a  moment  the  dreadful  tampering  with  the  body  of  the  con- 
stitution itself),  that,  if  their  petitions  had  literally  been  com- 
plied with,  the  state  would  have  been  convulsed,  and  a  gate 
would  have  been  opened  through  which  all  property  might  be 
sacked  and  ravaged.  Nothing  could  have  saved  the  public  from 
the  mischiefs  of  the  false  reform  but  its  absurdity,  which  would 
soon  have  brought  itself,  and  with  it  all  real  reform,  into  dis- 
credit. This  would  have  left  a  rankling  wound  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people,  who  would  know  they  had  failed  in  the  accomplish- 
ment of  their  wishes,  but  who,  like  the  rest  of  mankind  in  all 
ages,  would  impute  the  blame  to  anything  rather  than  to  their 
own  proceedings.  But  there  were  then  persons  in  the  world 
who  nourished  complaint,  and  would  have  been  thoroughly 
disappointed  if  the  people  were  ever  satisfied.  I  was  not  of  that 
humor.  I  wished  that  they  should  be  satisfied.  It  was  my  aim 
to  give  to  the  people  the  substance  of  what  I  knew  they  de- 
sired, and  what  I  thought  was  right,  whether  they  desired  it  or 


LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD  597 

not,  before  it  had  been  modified  for  them  into  senseless  peti- 
tions. I  knew  that  there  is  a  manifest,  marked  distinction, 
which  ill  men  with  ill  designs,  or  weak  men  incapable  of  any  de- 
sign, will  constantly  be  confounding,  —  that  is,  a  marked  dis- 
tinction between  change  and  reformation.  The  former  alters 
the  substance  of  the  objects  themselves,  and  gets  rid  of  all  their 
essential  good,  as  well  as  of  all  the  accidental  evil  annexed  to 
them.  Change  is  novelty;  and  whether  it  is  to  operate  any  one 
of  the  effects  of  reformation  at  all,  or  whether  it  may  not  con- 
tradict the  very  principle  upon  which  reformation  is  desired, 
cannot  be  certainly  known  beforehand.  Reform  is  not  a  change 
in  the  substance,  or  in  the  primary  modification,  of  the  object, 
but  a  direct  application  of  a  remedy  to  the  grievance  com- 
plained of.  So  far  as  that  is  removed,  all  is  sure.  It  stops 
there;  and,  if  it  fails,  the  substance  which  underwent  the  opera- 
tion, at  the  very  worst,  is  but  where  it  was. 

All  this,  in  effect,  I  think,  but  am  not  sure,  I  have  said  else- 
where. It  cannot  at  this  time  be  too  often  repeated,  —  line 
upon  line,  precept  upon  precept,  —  until  it  comes  into  the 
currency  of  a  proverb :  to  innovate  is  not  to  reform.  The  French 
revolutionists  complained  of  everything;  they  refused  to  reform 
anything;  and  they  left  nothing,  no,  nothing  at  all  unchanged. 
The  consequences  are  before  us,  —  not  in  remote  history;  not  in 
future  prognostication;  —  they  are  about  us;  they  are  upon 
us.  They  shake  the  public  security ;  they  menace  private  enjoy- 
ment. They  dwarf  the  growth  of  the  young;  they  break  the 
quiet  of  the  old.  If  we  travel,  they  stop  our  way.  They  infest 
us  in  town;  they  pursue  us  to  the  country.  Our  business  is  in 
terrupted;  our  repose  is  troubled;  our  pleasures  are  saddened, 
our  very  studies  are  poisoned  and  perverted,  and  knowledge  is 
rendered  worse  than  ignorance,  by  the  enormous  evils  of  this 
dreadful  innovation.  The  revolution  harpies  of  France,  sprung 
from  Night  and  Hell,  or  from  that  chaotic  Anarchy  which  gener- 
ates equivocally  "all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things,"  cuckoo- 
like,  adulterously  lay  their  eggs,  and  brood  over,  and  hatch 
them  in  the  nest  of  every  neighboring  state.  These  obscene 
harpies,  who  deck  themselves  in  I  know  not  what  divine 
attributes,  but  who  in  reality  are  foul  and  ravenous  birds 
of  prey  (both  mothers  and  daughters),  nutter  over  our  heads, 
and  souse  down  upon  our  tables,  and  leave  nothing  unrent, 


598  ,  EDMUND   BURKE 

unrifled,  unravaged,  or  unpolluted  with  the  slime  of  their  filthy 
offal.  .  .  . 

Does  his  Grace  think  that  they  who  advised  the  Crown  to 
make  my  retreat  easy,  considered  me  only  as  an  economist? 
That,  well  understood,  however,  is  a  good  deal.  If  I  had  not 
deemed  it  of  some  value,  I  should  not  have  made  political 
economy  an  object  of  my  humble  studies,  from  my  very  early 
youth  to  near  the  end  of  my  service  in  Parliament,  even  before 
(at  least  to  any  knowledge  of  mine)  it  had  employed  the 
thoughts  of  speculative  men  in  other  parts  of  Europe.  At  that 
time  it  was  still  in  its  infancy  in  England,  where,  in  the  last 
Century,  it  had  its  origin.  Great  and  learned  men  thought  my 
studies  were  not  wholly  thrown  away,  and  deigned  to  com- 
municate with  me  now  and  then  on  some  particulars  of  their 
immortal  works.  Something  of  these  studies  may  appear  inci- 
dentally in  some  of  the  earliest  things  I  published.  The  House 
has  been  witness  to  their  effect,  and  has  profited  of  them,  more 
or  less,  for  above  eight-and- twenty  years. 

To  their  estimate  I  leave  the  matter.  I  was  not,  like  his 
Grace  of  Bedford,  swaddled,  and  rocked,  and  dandled  into  a 
legislator;  " Nitor  in  adversum"  is  the  motto  of  a  man  like  me. 
I  possessed  not  one  of  the  qualities,  nor  cultivated  one  of  the 
arts,  that  recommend  men  to  the  favor  and  protection  of  the 
great.  I  was  not  made  for  a  minion  or  a  tool.  As  little  did  I  fol- 
low the  trade  of  winning  the  hearts,  by  imposing  on  the  under- 
standings, of  the  people.  At  every  step  of  my  progress  in  life 
(for  in  every  step  was  I  traversed  and  opposed),  and  at  every 
turnpike  I  met,  I  was  obliged  to  show  my  passport,  and  again 
and  again  to  prove  my  sole  title  to  the  honor  of  being  useful  to 
my  country,  by  a  proof  that  I  was  not  wholly  unacquainted  with 
its  laws  and  the  whole  system  of  its  interests  both  abroad  and  at 
home.  Otherwise  no  rank,  no  toleration  even,  for  me.  I  had  no 
arts  but  manly  arts.  On  them  I  have  stood,  and,  please  God, 
in  spite  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale,  to 
the  last  gasp  will  I  stand.  .  .  . 

The  awful  state  of  the  time,  and  not  myself,  or  my  own 
justification,  is  my  true  object  in  what  I  now  write,  or  in  what 
I  shall  ever  write  or  say.  It  little  signifies  to  the  world  what 
becomes  of  such  things  as  me,  or  even  as  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 
What  I  say  about  either  of  us  is  nothing  more  than  a  vehicle,  as 


LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD  599 

you,  my  Lord,  will  easily  perceive,  to  convey  my  sentiments  on 
matters  far  more  worthy  of  your  attention.  It  is  when  I  stick 
to  my  apparent  first  subject  that  I  ought  to  apologize,  not  when 
I  depart  from  it.  I  therefore  must  beg  your  Lordship's  pardon 
for  again  resuming  it  after  this  very  short  digression,  —  assuring 
you  that  I  shall  never  altogether  lose  sight  of  such  matter  as 
persons  abler  than  I  am  may  turn  to  some  profit. 

The  Duke  of  Bedford  conceives  that  he  is  obliged  to  call  the 
attention  of  the  House  of  Peers  to  his  Majesty's  grant  to  me, 
which  he  considers  as  excessive,  and  out  of  all  bounds. 

I  know  not  how  it  has  happened,  but  it  really  seems  that, 
whilst  his  Grace  was  meditating  his  well-considered  censure 
upon  me,  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  sleep.  Homer  nods,  and  the  Duke 
of  Bedford  may  dream ;  and  as  dreams  (even  his  golden  dreams) 
are  apt  to  be  ill-pieced  and  incongruously  put  together,  his 
Grace  preserved  his  idea  of  reproach  to  me,  but  took  the  sub- 
ject-matter from  the  crown  grants  to  his  own  family.  This  is 
"  the  stuff  of  which  his  dreams  are  made."  In  that  way  of  put- 
ting things  together  his  Grace  is  perfectly  in  the  right.  The 
grants  to  the  house  of  Russell  were  so  enormous  as  not  only  to 
outrage  economy,  but  even  to  stagger  credibility.  The  Duke 
of  Bedford  is  the  leviathan  among  all  the  creatures  of  the 
Crown.  He  tumbles  about  his  unwieldy  bulk;  he  plays  and 
frolics  in  the  ocean  of  the  royal  bounty.  Huge  as  he  is,  and 
whilst  "he  lies  floating  many  a  rood,"  he  is  still  a  creature.  His 
ribs,  his  fins,  his  whalebone,  his  blubber,  the  very  spiracles 
through  which  he  spouts  a  torrent  of  brine  against  his  origin, 
and  covers  me  all  over  with  the  spray,  —  everything  of  him  anc\ 
about  him  is  from  the  throne.  Is  it  for  him  to  question  the  dis- 
pensation of  the  royal  favor? 

I  really  am  at  a  loss  to  draw  any  sort  of  parallel  between  the 
public  merits  of  his  Grace,  by  which  he  justifies  the  grants  he 
holds,  and  these  services  of  mine,  on  the  favorable  construc- 
tion of  which  I  have  obtained  what  his  Grace  so  much  disap- 
proves. In  private  life,  I  have  not  at  all  the  honor  of  acquaint- 
ance with  the  noble  Duke.  But  I  ought  to  presume,  and  it 
costs  me  nothing  to  do  so,  that  he  abundantly  deserves  the  es' 
teem  and  love  of  all  who  live  with  him.  But  as  to  public  service, 
why,  truly  it  would  not  be  more  ridiculous  for  me  to  com- 
pare myself  in  rank,  in  fortune,  in  splendid  descent,  in  youth, 


6oo  EDMUND   BURKE 

strength,  or  figure,  with  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  than  to  make  a 
parallel  between  his  services  and  my  attempts  to  be  useful  to 
my  country.  It  would  not  be  gross  adulation,  but  uncivil  irony, 
to  say  that  he  has  any  public  merit  of  his  own  to  keep  alive  the 
idea  of  the  services  by  which  his  vast  landed  pensions  were  ob- 
tained. My  merits,  whatever  they  are,  are  original  and  personal ; 
his  are  derivative.  It  is  his  ancestor,  the  original  pensioner, 
that  has  laid  up  this  inexhaustible  fund  of  merit,  which  makes 
his  Grace  so  very  delicate  and  exceptious  about  the  merit  of  all 
other  grantees  of  the  Crown.  Had  he  permitted  me  to  remain 
in  quiet,  I  should, have  said,  "  'T  is  his  estate;  that's  enough. 
It  is  his  by  law;  what  have  I  to  do  with  it  or  its  history?"  He 
would  naturally  have  said  on  his  side,  "  'T  is  this  man's  fortune. 
He  is  as  good  now  as  my  ancestor  was  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago.  I  am  a  young  man  with  very  old  pensions;  he  is  an 
old  man  with  very  young  pensions,  —  that's  all." 

Why  will  his  Grace,  by  attacking  me,  force  me  reluctantly  to 
compare  my  little  merit  with  that  which  obtained  from  the 
Crown  those  prodigies  of  profuse  donation  by  which  he  tram- 
ples on  the  mediocrity  of  humble  and  laborious  individuals? 
I  would  willingly  leave  him  to  the  Heralds'  College,  which  the 
philosophy  of  the  sans-culottes  (prouder  by  far  than  all  the 
Garters,  and  Norroys,  and  Clarencieux,  and  Rouge  Dragons 
that  ever  pranced  in  a  procession  of  what  his  friends  call  aris- 
tocrats and  despots)  will  abolish  with  contumely  and  scorn. 
These  historians,  recorders,  and  blazoners  of  virtues  and  arms 
differ  wholly  from  that  other  description  of  historians,  who 
never  assign  any  act  of  politicians  to  a  good  motive.  These 
gentle  historians,  on  the  contrary,  dip  their  pens  in  nothing  but 
the  milk  of  human  kindness.  They  seek  no  further  for  merit 
than  the  preamble  of  a  patent,  or  the  inscription  on  a  tomb. 
With  them  every  man  created  a  peer  is  first  a  hero  ready-made. 
They  judge  of  every  man's  capacity  for  office  by  the  offices  he 
has  filled,  and  the  more  offices  the  more  ability.  Every  general 
officer  with  them  is  a  Marlborough;  every  statesman  a  Bur- 
leigh;  every  judge  a  Murray  or  a  Yorke.  They  who,  alive,  were 
laughed  at  or  pitied  by  all  their  acquaintance,  make  as  good  a 
figure  as  the  best  of  them  in  the  pages  of  Guillim,  Edmondson, 
and  Collins. 

To  these  recorders,  so  full  of  good -nature  to  the  great  and 


LETTER   TO  A   NOBLE  LORD  601 

prosperous,  I  would  willingly  leave  the  first  Baron  Russell  and 
Earl  of  Bedford,  and  the  merits  of  his  grants.  But  the  aulnager, 
the  weigher,  the  meter  of  grants,  will  not  suffer  us  to  acquiesce  in 
the  judgment  of  the  prince  reigning  at  the  time  when  they  were 
made.  They  are  never  good  to  those  who  earn  them.  Well, 
then,  since  the  new  grantees  have  war  made  on  them  by  the  old, 
and  that  the  word  of  the  sovereign  is  not  to  be  taken,  let  us  turn 
our  eyes  to  history,  in  which  great  men  have  always  a  pleasure 
in  contemplating  the  heroic  origin  of  their  house. 

The  first  peer  of  the  name,  the  first  purchaser  of  the  grants, 
was  a  Mr.  Russell,  a  person  of  an  ancient  gentleman's  family, 
raised  by  being  a  minion  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  As  there  gener- 
ally is  some  resemblance  of  character  to  create  these  relations, 
the  favorite  was  in  all  likelihood  much  such  another  as  his  mas- 
ter. The  first  of  those  immoderate  grants  was  not  taken  from 
the  ancient  demesne  of  the  Crown,  but  from  the  recent  confis- 
cation of  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  land.  The  lion,  having 
sucked  the  blood  of  his  prey,  threw  the  offal  carcass  to  the 
jackal  in  waiting.  Having  tasted  once  the  food  of  confiscation, 
the  favorites  became  fierce  and  ravenous.  This  worthy  favor- 
ite's first  grant  was  from  the  lay  nobility.  The  second,  infin- 
itely improving  on  the  enormity  of  the  first,  was  from  the 
plunder  of  the  Church.  In  truth  his  Grace  is  somewhat  excus- 
able for  his  dislike  to  a  grant  like  mine,  not  only  in  its  quantity 
but  in  its  kind  so  different  from  his  own. 

Mine  was  from  a  mild  and  benevolent  sovereign;  his  from 
Henry  the  Eighth. 

Mine  had  not  its  fund  in  the  murder  of  any  innocent  person 
of  illustrious  rank,  or  in  the  pillage  of  any  body  of  unoffending 
men.  His  grants  were  from  the  aggregate  and  consolidated 
funds  of  judgments  iniquitously  legal,  and  from  possessions 
voluntarily  surrendered  by  the  lawful  proprietors,  with  the 
gibbet  at  their  door. 

The  merit  of  the  grantee  whom  he  derives  from  was  that  of 
being  a  prompt  and  greedy  instrument*of  a  leveling  tyrant,  who 
oppressed  all  descriptions  of  his  people,  but  who  fell  with  par- 
'ticular  fury  on  everything  that  was  great  and  noble.  Mine  has 
been,  in  endeavoring  to  screen  every  man,  in  every  class,  from 
oppression,  and  particularly  in  defending  the  high  and  eminent, 
who  in  the  bad  times  of  confiscating  princes,  confiscating  chief 


602  EDMUND   BURKE 

governors,  or  confiscating  demagogues,  are  the  most  exposed  to 
jealousy,  avarice,  and  envy. 

The  merit  of  the  original  grantee  of  his  Grace's  pensions  was 
in  giving  his  hand  to  the  work  and  partaking  the  spoil,  with  a 
prince  who  plundered  a  part  of  the  national  church  of  his  time 
and  country.  Mine  was  in  defending  the  whole  of  the  national 
church  of  my  own  time  and  my  own  country,  and  the  whole  of 
the  national  churches  of  all  countries,  from  the  principles  and 
the  examples  which  lead  to  ecclesiastical  pillage,  —  thence  to  a 
contempt  of  all  prescriptive  titles,  thence  to  the  pillage  of  all 
property,  and  thence  to  universal  desolation. 

The  merit  of  the  origin  of  his  Grace's  fortune  was  in  being  a 
favorite  and  chief  adviser  to  a  prince  who  left  no  liberty  to  their 
native  country.  My  endeavor  was  to  obtain  liberty  for  the 
municipal  country  in  which  I  was  born,  and  for  all  descriptions 
and  denominations  in  it.  Mine  was  to  support  with  unrelaxing 
vigilance  every  right,  every  privilege,  every  franchise,  in  this 
my  adopted,  my  dearer,  and  more  comprehensive  country; 
and  not  only  to  preserve  those  rights  in  this  chief  seat  of  empire, 
but  in  every  nation,  in  every  land,  in  every  climate,  language, 
and  religion,  in  the  vast  domain  that  is  still  under  the  protec- 
tion, and  the  larger  that  was  once  under  the  protection,  of  the 
British  Crown. 

His  founder's  merits  were,  by  arts  in  which  he  served  his 
master  and  made  his  fortune,  to  bring  poverty,  wretchedness, 
and  depopulation  on  his  country.  Mine  were,  under  a  bene- 
volent prince,  in  promoting  the  commerce,  manufactures,  and 
agriculture  of  his  kingdom;  in  which  his  Majesty  shows  an 
eminent  example,  who  even  in  his  amusements  is  a  patriot,  and 
in  hours  of  leisure  an  improver  of  his  native  soil. 

His  founder's  merit  was  the  merit  of  a  gentleman  raised  by 
the  arts  of  a  court,  and  the  protection  of  a  Wolsey,  to  the  em- 
inence of  a  great  and  potent  lord.  His  merit  in  that  eminence 
was,  by  instigating  a  tyrant  to  injustice,  to  provoke  a  people 
to  rebellion.  My  merit  was,  to  awaken  the  sober  part  of  the 
country,  that  they  might  put  themselves  on  their  guard  against 
any  one  potent  lord,  or  any  greater  number  of  potent  lords,  or 
any  combination  of  great  leading  men  of  any  sort,  if  ever  they 
should  attempt  to  proceed  in  the  same  courses,  but  in  the  re- 
verse order,  —  that  is,  by  instigating  a  corrupted  populace  to 


LETTER   TO  A   NOBLE  LORD  603 

rebellion,  and,  through  that  rebellion,  introducing  a  tyranny  yet 
worse  than  the  tyranny  which  his  Grace's  ancestor  supported, 
and  of  which  he  profited  in  the  manner  we  behold  in  the  despot- 
ism of  Henry  the  Eighth. 

The  political  merit  of  the  first  pensioner  of  his  Grace's  house 
was  that  of  being  concerned  as  a  counselor  of  state  in  advising, 
and  in  his  person  executing,  the  conditions  of  a  dishonorable 
peace  with  France;  the  surrendering  the  fortress  of  Boulogne, 
then  our  out-guard  on  the  Continent.  By  that  surrender, 
Calais,  the  key  of  France,  and  the  bridle  in  the  mouth  of  that 
power,  was,  not  many  years  afterwards,  finally  lost.  My  merit 
has  been  in  resisting  the  power  and  pride  of  France,  under  any 
form  of  its  rule,  but  in  opposing  it  with  the  greatest  zeal  and 
earnestness,  when  that  rule  appeared  in  the  worst  form  it  could 
assume,  — the  worst,  indeed,  which  the  prime  cause  and  prin- 
ciple of  all  evil  could  possibly  give  it.  It  was  my  endeavor  by 
every  means  to  excite  a  spirit  in  the  House  where  I  had  the 
honor  of  a  seat,  for  carrying  on,  with  early  vigor  and  decision, 
the  most  clearly  just  and  necessary  war  that  this  or  any  nation 
ever  carried  on,  in  order  to  save  my  country  from  the  iron  yoke 
of  its  power,  and  from  the  more  dreadful  contagion  of  its  prin- 
ciples; to  preserve,  while  they  can  be  preserved,  pure  and 
untainted,  the  ancient,  inbred  integrity,  piety,  good  nature,  and 
good  humor  of  the  people  of  England,  from  the  dreadful  pest- 
ilence which,  beginning  in  France,  threatens  to  lay  waste  the 
whole  moral,  and  in  a  great  degree  the  whole  physical  world, 
having  done  both  in  the  focus  of  its  most  intense  malignity. 

The  labors  of  his  Grace's  founder  merited  the  curses,  not 
loud  but  deep,  of  the  Commons  of  England,  on  whom  he  and 
his  master  had  effected  a  complete  parliamentary  reform,  by 
making  them,  in  their  slavery  and  humiliation,  the  true  and 
adequate  representatives  of  a  debased,  degraded,  and  undone 
people.  My  merits  were,  in  having  had  an  active  though  not 
always  an  ostentatious  share,  in  every  one  act,  without  excep- 
tion, of  undisputed  constitutional  utility  in  my  time,  and  in 
having  supported,  on  all  occasions,  the  authority,  the  efficiency, 
and  the  privileges  of  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain.  I  ended 
my  services  by  a  recorded  and  fully  reasoned  assertion  on  their 
own  journals  of  their  constitutional  rights,  and  a  vindication  of 
their  constitutional  conduct.  I  labored  in  all  things  to  merit 


604  EDMUND   BURKE 

their  inward  approbation,  and  (along  with  the  assistance  of  th* 
largest,  the  greatest,  and  best  of  my  endeavors)  I  received  their 
free,  unbiased,  public,  and  solemn  thanks. 

Thus  stands  the  account  of  the  comparative  merits  of  the 
crown  grants  which  compose  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  fortune 
as  balanced  against  mine.  In  the  name  of  common  sense,  why 
should  the  Duke  of  Bedford  think  that  none  but  of  the  house  of 
Russell  are  entitled  to  the  favor  of  the  Crown?  Why  should  he 
imagine  that  no  king  of  England  has  been  capable  of  judging 
of  merit  but  King  Henry  the  Eighth?  Indeed,  he  will  pardon 
me;  he  is  a  little  mistaken;  all  virtue  did  not  end  in  the  first 
Earl  of  Bedford.  All  discernment  did  not  lose  its  vision  when 
his  creator  closed  his  eyes.  Let  him  remit  his  rigor  on  the  dis- 
proportion between  merit  and  reward  in  others,  and  they  will 
make  no  inquiry  into  the  origin  of  his  fortune.  They  will  regard 
with  much  more  satisfaction,  as  he  will  contemplate  with  in- 
finitely more  advantage,  whatever  in  his  pedigree  has  been 
dulcified  by  an  exposure  to  the  influence  of  heaven  in  a  long 
flow  of  generations,  from  the  hard,  acidulous,  metallic  tincture 
cf  the  spring.  It  is  little  to  be  doubted  that  several  of  his  fore- 
fathers in  that  long  series  have  degenerated  into  honor  and 
virtue.  Let  the  Duke  of  Bedford  (I  am  sure  he  will)  reject  with 
scorn  and  horror  the  counsels  of  the  lecturers,  those  wicked 
panders  to  avarice  and  ambition,  who  would  tempt  him,  in  the 
troubles  of  his  country,  to  seek  another  enormous  fortune  from 
the  forfeitures  of  another  nobility,  and  the  plunder  of  another 
church.  Let  him  (and  I  trust  that  yet  he  will)  employ  all  the 
energy  of  his  youth,  and  all  the  resources  of  his  wealth,  to  crush 
rebellious  principles  which  have  no  foundation  in  morals,  and 
rebellious  movements  that  have  no  provocation  in  tyranny. 

Then  will  be  forgot  the  rebellions  which,  by  a  doubtful 
priority  in  crime,  his  ancestor  had  provoked  and  extinguished. 
On  such  a  conduct  in  the  noble  Duke,  many  of  his  countrymen 
might  —  and  with  some  excuse  might  —  give  way  to  the  enthu- 
siasm of  their  gratitude,  and,  in  the  dashing  style  of  some  of  the 
old  declaimers,  cry  out  that,  if  the  Fates  had  found  no  other  way 
in  which  they  could  give  a  Duke  of  Bedford  and  his  opulence 
as  props  to  a  tottering  world,  then  the  butchery  of  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham  might  be  tolerated;  it  might  be  regarded  even 
with  complacency,  whilst  in  the  heir  of  confiscation  they  saw 


LETTER   TO  A  NOBLE  LORD  605 

the  sympathizing  comforter  of  the  martyrs  who  suffer  under 
the  cruel  confiscation  of  this  day;  whilst  they  beheld  with 
admiration  his  zealous  protection  of  the  virtuous  and  loyal 
nobility  of  France,  and  his  manly  support  of  his  brethren,  the 
yet  standing  nobility  and  gentry  of  his  native  land.  Then  his 
Grace's  merit  would  be  pure,  and  new,  and  sharp,  as  fresh  from 
the  mint  of  honor.  As  he  pleased,  he  might  reflect  honor  on  his 
predecessors,  or  throw  it  forward  on  those  who  were  to  succeed 
him.  He  might  be  the  propagator  of  the  stock  of  honor,  or  the 
root  of  it,  as  he  thought  proper. 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  tome  the  hopes  of  succession, 
I  should  have  been,  according  to  my  mediocrity,  and  the  medi- 
ocrity of  the  age  I  live  in,  a  sort  of  founder  of  a  family;  I  should 
have  left  a  son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit 
can  be  viewed,  in  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste,  in 
honor,  in  generosity,  in  humanity,  in  every  liberal  sentiment, 
and  every  liberal  accomplishment,  would  not  have  shown  him- 
self inferior  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those  whom  he 
traces  in  his  line.  His  Grace  very  soon  would  have  wanted  all 
plausibility  in  his  attack  upon  that  provision  which  belonged 
more  to  mine  than  to  me.  HE  would  soon  have  supplied  every 
deficiency,  and  symmetrized  every  disproportion.  It  would 
not  have  been  for  that  successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant, 
wasting  reservoir  of  merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in 
himself  a  salient,  living  spring  of  generous  and  manly  action. 
Every  day  he  lived  he  would  have  repurchased  the  bounty  of 
the  Crown,  and  ten  times  more,  if  ten  times  more  he  had  re- 
ceived. He  was  made  a  public  creature,  and  had  no  enjoyment 
whatever  but  in  the  performance  of  some  duty.  At  this  exigent 
moment,  the  loss  of  a  finished  man  is  not  easily  supplied. 

But  a  Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to  resist,  and 
whose  wisdom  it  behooves  us  not  at  all  to  dispute,  has  ordained 
it  in  another  manner,  and  (whatever  my  querulous  weakness 
might  suggest)  a  far  better.  The  storm  has  gone  over  me;  and 
I  lie  like  one  of  those  old  oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  has  scat- 
tered about  me.  I  am  stripped  of  all  my  honors,  I  am  torn  up 
by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  on  the  earth.  There,  and  pros- 
trate there,  I  most  unfeignedly  recognize  the  divine  justice, 
and  in  some  degree  submit  to  it.  But  whilst  I  humble  myself 
before  God,  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the 


606  EDMUND   BURKE 

attacks  of  unjust  and  inconsiderate  men.  The  patience  of  Job 
is  proverbial.  After  some  of  the  convulsive  struggles  of  our 
irritable  nature,  he  submitted  himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and 
ashes.  But  even  so,  I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  reprehending, 
and  with  a  considerable  degree  of  verbal  asperity,  those  ill- 
natured  neighbors  of  his,  who  visited  his  dunghill  to  read  moral, 
political,  and  economical  lectures  on  his  misery.  I  am  alone.  I 
have  none  to  meet  my  enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my  Lord,  I 
greatly  deceive  myself  if  in  this  hard  season  I  would  give  a  peck 
of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fame  and  honor  in  the  world. 
This  is  the  appetite  but  of  a  few.  It  is  a  luxury,  it  is  a  privilege, 
it  is  an  indulgence  for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all 
of  us  made  to  shun  disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to  shrink  from  pain 
and  poverty  and  disease.  It  is  an  instinct;  and  under  the  direc- 
tion of  reason,  instinct  is  always  in  the  right.  I  live  in  an  inverted 
order.  They  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone  before  me. 
They  who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity  are  in  the  place  of 
ancestors.  I  owe  to  the  dearest  relation  (which  ever  must  subsist 
in  memory)  that  act  of  piety  which  he  would  have  performed  to 
me ;  I  owe  it  to  him  to  show  that  he  was  not  descended,  as  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy  parent. 

The  Crown  has  considered  me  after  long  service ;  the  Crown 
has  paid  the  Duke  of  Bedford  by  advance.  He  has  had  a  long 
credit  for  any  service  which  he  may  perform  hereafter.  He  is 
secure  —  and  long  may  he  be  secure  —  in  his  advance,  whether 
he  performs  any  services  or  not.  But  let  him  take  care  how  he 
endangers  the  safety  of  that  constitution  which  secures  his  own 
utility  or  his  own  insignificance;  or  how  he  discourages  those 
who  take  up  even  puny  arms,  to  defend  an  order  of  things 
which,  like  the  sun  of  heaven,  shines  alike  on  the  useful  and  the 
worthless.  His  grants  are  ingrafted  on  the  public  law  of  Europe, 
covered  with  the  awful  hoar  of  innumerable  ages.  They  are 
guarded  by  the  sacred  rules  of  prescription,  found  in  that  full 
treasury  of  jurisprudence  from  which  the  jejuneness  and  penury 
of  our  municipal  law  has,  by  degrees,  been  enriched  and 
strengthened.  This  prescription  I  had  my  share  (a  very  full 
share)  in  bringing  to  its  perfection.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  will 
stand  as  long  as  prescriptive  law  endures;  as  long  as  the  great 
stable  laws  of  property,  common  to  us  with  all  civilized  na- 
tions, are  kept  in  their  integrity,  and  without  the  smallest  inter- 


LETTER   TO  A  NOBLE   LORD  607 

mixture  of  laws,  maxims,  principles,  or  precedents  of  the  Grand 
Revolution.  They  are  secure  against  all  changes  but  one.  The 
whole  revolutionary  system  —  institutes,  digest,  code,  novels, 
text,  gloss,  comment  —  are  not  only  not  the  same,  but  they 
are  the  very  reverse,  and  the  reverse  fundamentally,  of  all  the 
laws  on  which  civil  life  has  hitherto  been  upheld  in  all  the  gov- 
ernments of  the  world.  The  learned  professors  of  the  Rights  of 
Man  regard  prescription,  not  as  a  title  to  bar  all  claim  set  up 
against  all  possession  —  but  they  look  on  prescription  as  itself 
a  bar  against  the  possessor  and  proprietor.  They  hold  an  im- 
memorial possession  to  be  no  more  than  a  long-continued,  and 
therefore  an  aggravated,  injustice. 

Such  are  their  ideas;  such  their  religion,  and  such  their  law. 
But  as  to  our  country  and  our  race,  as  long  as  the  welli-com- 
pacted  structure  of  our  church  and  state,  the  sanctuary,  the 
holy  of  holies  of  that  ancient  law,  defended  by  reverence,  de- 
fended by  power,  a  fortress  at  once  and  a  temple,  shall  stand  in- 
violate on  the  brow  of  the  British  Sion, —  as  long  as  the  British 
monarchy,  not  more  limited  than  fenced  by  the  orders  of  the 
state,  shall,  like  the  proud  Keep  of  Windsor,  rising  in  the  majesty 
of  proportion,  and  girt  with  the  double  belt  of  its  kindred  and 
coeval  towers,  —  as  long  as  this  awful  structure  shall  oversee 
and  guard  the  subjected  land,  —  so  long  the  mounds  and  dikes 
of  the  low,  fat  Bedford  level  will  have  nothing  to  fear  from  all 
the  pickaxes  of  all  the  levelers  of  France.  As  long  as  our  sov- 
ereign'lord  the  King,  and  his  faithful  subjects,  the  Lords  and 
Commons  of  this  realm,  —  the  triple  cord,  which  no  man  can 
break;  the  solemn,  sworn,  constitutional  frank-pledge  of  this 
nation;  the  firm  guarantees  of  each  other's  being  and  each 
other's  rights;  the  joint  and  several  securities,  each  in  its  place 
and  order,  for  every  kind  and  every  quality  of  property  and  of 
dignity;  —  as  long  as  these  endure,  so  long  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford is  safe,  and  we  are  all  safe  together  —  the  high  from  the 
blights  of  envy  and  the  spoliations  of  rapacity;  the  low  from 
the  iron  hand  of  oppression  and  the  insolent  spurn  of  contempt. 
Amen!  and  so  be  it:  and  so  it  will  be, — 

Dum  domus  sEnea  Capitoli  immobile  saxum 
Accolet,  imperiumque  pater  Romanus  habcbit.1 

1  "While  the  race  of  ^neas  shall  dwell  by  the  immovable  rock  of  the  Capitol,  and 
Jupiter  Capitolinus  hold  sway." 


6o8  EDMUND   BURKE 

But  if  the  rude  inroad  of  Gallic  tumult,  with  its  sophistical 
Rights  of  Man  to  falsify  the  account,  and  its  sword  as  a  make- 
weight to  throw  into  the  scale,  shall  be  introduced  into  our  city 
by  a  misguided  populace,  set  on  by  proud  great  men,  themselves 
blinded  and  intoxicated  by  a  frantic  ambition,  we  shall  all  of  us 
perish  and  be  overwhelmed  in  a  common  ruin.  If  a  great  storm 
blow  on  our  coast,  it  will  cast  the  whales  on  the  strand  as  well 
as  the  periwinkles.  His  Grace  will  not  survive  the  poor  grantee 
he  despises,  —  no,  not  for  a  twelvemonth.  If  the  great  look  for 
safety  in  the  services  they  render  to  this  Gallic  cause,  it  is  to 
be  foolish,  even  above  the  weight  of  privilege  allowed  to  wealth. 
If  his  Grace  be  one  of  these  whom  they  endeavor  to  proselytize, 
he  ought  to  be  aware  of  the  character  of  the  sect  whose  doctrines 
he  is  invited  to  embrace.-  With  them  insurrection  is  the  most 
sacred  of  revolutionary  duties  to  the  state.  Ingratitude  to  bene- 
factors is  the  first  of  revolutionary  virtues.  Ingratitude  is  in- 
deed their  four  cardinal  virtues  compacted  and  amalgamated 
into  one;  and  he  will  find  it  in  everything  that  has  happened 
since  the  commencement  of  the  philosophic  Revolution  to  this 
hour.  If  he  pleads  the  merit  of  having  performed  the  duty  of 
insurrection  against  the  order  he  lives  in  (God  forbid  he  ever 
should),  the  merit  of  others  will  be  to  perform  the  duty  of  in- 
surrection against  him.  If  he  pleads  (again  God  forbid  he 
should,  and  I  do  not  suspect  he  will)  his  ingratitude  to  the  Crown 
for  its  creation  of  his  family,  others  will  plead  their  right 
and  duty  to  pay  him  in  kind.  They  will  laugh  —  indeed  they 
will  laugh  —  at  his  parchment  and  his  wax.  His  deeds  will  be 
drawn  out  with  the  rest  of  the  lumber  of  his  evidence-room, 
and  burnt  to  the  tune  of  qa  ira  in  the  courts  of  Bedford  (then 
Equality)  House. 

Am  I  to  blame,  if  I  attempt  to  pay  his  Grace's  hostile  re- 
proaches to  me  with  a  friendly  admonition  to  himself  ?  Can  I 
be  blamed  for  pointing  out  to  him  in  what  manner  he  is  likely 
to  be  affected,  if  the  sect  of  the  cannibal  philosophers  of  France 
should  proselytize  any  considerable  part  of  this  people,  and,  by 
their  joint  proselytizing  arms,  should  conquer  that  government 
to  which  his  Grace  does  not  seem  to  me  to  give  all  the  support 
his  own  security  demands?  Surely  it  is  proper  that  he,  and  that 
others  like  him,  should  know  the  true  genius  of  this  sect:^ 
what  their  opinions  are,  what  they  have  done,  and  to  whom; 


LETTER   TO  A  NOBLE  LORD 

and  what  (if  a  prognostic  is  to  be  formed  from  the  dispositions 
and  actions  of  men)  it  is  certain  they  will  do  hereafter.  He 
ought  to  know  that  they  have  sworn  assistance  —  the  only 
engagement  they  ever  will  keep  —  to  all  in  this  country  who 
bear  a  resemblance  to  themselves,  and  who  think,  as  such,  that 
"the  whole  duty  of  man"  consists  in  destruction.  They  are 
a  misallied  and  disparaged  branch  of  the  house  of  Nimrod. 
They  are  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  natural  hunters;  and  he  is  their 
natural  game.  Because  he  is  not  very  profoundly  reflecting, 
he  sleeps  in  profound  security;  they,  on  the  contrary,  are  always 
vigilant,  active,  enterprising,  and,  though  far  removed  from 
any  knowledge  which  makes  men  estimable  or  useful,  in  all  the 
instruments  and  resources  of  evil  their  leaders  are  not  meanly 
instructed,  or  insufficiently  furnished.  In  the  French  Revolu- 
tion everything  is  new;  and,  from  want  of  preparation  to  meet 
so  unlooked-for  an  evil,  everything  is  dangerous.  Never  before 
this  time  was  a  set  of  literary  men  converted  into  a  gang  of 
robbers  and  assassins.  Never  before  did  a  den  of  bravoes 
and  banditti  assume  the  garb  and  tone  of  an  academy  of  phil- 
osophers. 

Let  me  tell  his  Grace  that  an  union  of  such  characters,  mon- 
strous as  it  seems,  is  not  made  for  producing  despicable  ene- 
mies. But  if  they  are  formidable  as  foes,  as  friends  they  are 
dreadful  indeed.  The  men  of  property  in  France,  confiding  in  a 
force  which  seemed  to  be  irresistible  because  it  had  never  been 
tried,  neglected  to  prepare  for  a  conflict  with  their  enemies  at 
their  own  weapons.  They  were  found  in  such  a  situation  as  the 
Mexicans  were,  when  they  were  attacked  by  the  dogs,  the 
cavalry,  the  iron,  and  the  gunpowder,  of  a  handful  of  bearded 
men  whom  they  did  not  know  to  exist  in  nature.  This  is  a  com- 
parison that  some,  I  think,  have  made;  and  it  is  just.  In  France 
they  had  their  enemies  within  their  houses.  They  were  even  in 
the  bosoms  of  many  of  them.  But  they  had  not  the  sagacity  to 
discern  their  savage  character.  They  seemed  tame,  and  even 
caressing.  They  had  nothing  but  douce  humanite  in  their  mouth. 
They  could  not  bear  the  punishment  of  the  mildest  laws  on  the 
greatest  criminals.  The  slightest  severity  of  justice  made  their 
flesh  creep.  The  very  idea  that  war  existed  in  the  world  dis- 
turbed their  repose.  Military  glory  was  no  more,  with  them, 
than  a  splendid  infamy.  Hardly  would  they  hear  of  self-defense, 


6io  EDMUND   BURKE 

which  they  reduced  within  such  bounds  as  to  leave  it  no  defense 
at  all.  All  this  while  they  meditated  the  confiscations  and  mas- 
sacres we  have  seen.  Had  any  one  told  these  unfortunate  noble- 
men and  gentlemen  how,  and  by  whom,  the  grand  fabric  of  the 
French  monarchy  under  which  they  flourished  would  be  sub- 
verted, they  would  not  have  pitied  him  as  a  visionary,  but 
would  have  turned  from  him  as  what   they  call  a  mauvais 
plaisant.  Yet  we  have  seen  what  has  happened.  The  persons 
who  have  suffered  from  the  cannibal  philosophy  of  France  are 
so  like  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  that  nothing  but  his  Grace's 
probably  not  speaking  quite  so  good  French  could  enable  us 
to  find  out  any  difference.  A  great  many  of  them  had  as  pomp- 
ous titles  as  he,  and  were  of  full  as  illustrious  a  race;  some  few 
of  them  had  fortunes  as  ample;  several  of  them,  without  mean- 
ing the  least  disparagement  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  were  as 
wise,  and  as  virtuous,  and  as  valiant,  and  as  well  educated,  and 
as  complete  in  all  the  lineaments  of  men  of  honor,  as  he  is;  and 
to  all  this  they  had  added  the  powerful  out-guard  of  a  military 
profession,  which,  in  its  nature,  renders  men  somewhat  more 
cautious  than  those  who  have  nothing  to  attend  to  but  the  lazy 
enjoyment  of  undisturbed  possessions.   But  security  was  their 
ruin.   They  are  dashed  to  pieces  in  the  storm,  and  our  shores 
are  covered  with  the  wrecks.  If  they  had  been  aware  that  such 
a  thing  might  happen,  such  a  thing  never  could  have  happened. 
I  assure  his  Grace  that,  if  I  state  to  him  the  designs  of  his 
enemies  in  a  manner  which  may  appear  to  him  ludicrous  and 
impossible,  I  tell  him  nothing  that  has  not  exactly  happened, 
point  by  point,  but  twenty-four  miles  from  our  own  shore.    I 
assure  him  that  the  Frenchified  faction,  more  encouraged  than 
others  are  warned  by  what  has  happened  in  France,  look  at  him 
and  his  landed  possessions  as  an  object  at  once  of  curiosity  and 
rapacity.   He  is  made  for  them  in  every  part  of  their  double 
character.  As  robbers,  to  them  he  is  a  noble  booty;  as  speculat- 
ists,  he  is  a  glorious  subject  for  their  experimental  philosophy. 
He  affords  matter  for  an  extensive  analysis  in  all  the  branches 
of  their  science,    geometrical,  physical,  civil,  and  political. 
These  philosophers  are  fanatics;  independent  of  any  interest, 
which  if  it  operated  alone  would  make  them  much  more  tract- 
able, they  are  carried  with  such  a  headlong  rage  towards  every 
desperate  trial,  that  they  would  sacrifice  the  whole  human  race 


LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD      611 

to  the  slightest  of  their  experiments.  I  am  better  able  to  enter 
into  the  character  of  this  description  of  men  than  the  noble  Duke 
can  be.  I  have  lived  long  and  variously  in  the  world.  Without 
any  considerable  pretensions  to  literature  in  myself,  I  have 
aspired  to  the  love  of  letters.  I  have  lived  for  a  great  many 
years  in  habitudes  with  those  who  professed  them.  I  can  form 
a  tolerable  estimate  of  what  is  likely  to  happen  from  a  char- 
acter chiefly  dependent  for  fame  and  fortune  on  knowledge  and 
talent,  as  well  in  its  morbid  and  perverted  state  as  in  that 
which  is  sound  and  natural.  Naturally  men  so  formed  and  fin- 
ished are  the  first  gifts  of  Providence  to  the  world.  But  when 
they  have  once  thrown  off  the  fear  of  God,  which  was  in  all  ages 
too  often  the  case,  and  the  fear  of  man,  which  is  now  the  case, 
and  when  in  that  state  they  come  to  understand  one  another, 
and  to  act  in  corps,  a  more  dreadful  calamity  cannot  arise  out  of 
hell  to  scourge  mankind.  Nothing  can  be  conceived  more  hard 
than  the  heart  of  a  thoroughbred  metaphysician.  It  comes 
nearer  to  the  cold  malignity  of  a  wicked  spirit  than  to  the  frailty 
and  passion  of  a  man.  It  is  like  that  of  the  principle  of  evil  him- 
self, —  incorporeal,  pure,  unmixed,  dephlegmated,  defecated 
evil.  It  is  no  easy  operation  to  eradicate  humanity  from  the 
human  breast.  What  Shakespeare  calls  "the  compunctious 
visi tings  of  nature"  will  sometimes  knock  at  their  hearts,  and 
protest  against  their  murderous  speculations.  But  they  have 
a  means  of  compounding  with  their  nature.  Their  humanity  is 
not  dissolved;  they  only  give  it  a  long  prorogation.  They  are 
ready  to  declare  that  they  do  not  think  two  thousand  years  too 
long  a  period  for  the  good  that  they  pursue.  It  is  remarkable 
that  they  never  see  any  way  to  their  projected  good  but  by  the 
road  of  some  evil.  Their  imagination  is  not  fatigued  with  the 
contemplation  of  human  suffering  through  the  wild  waste  of 
centuries  added  to  centuries  of  misery  and  desolation.  Their 
humanity  is  at  their  horizon  —  and,  like  the  horizon,  it  always 
flies  before  them.  The  geometricians  and  the  chemists  bring, 
the  one  from  the  dry  bones  of  their  diagrams,  and  the  other 
from  the  soot  of  their  furnaces,  dispositions  that  make  them 
worse  than  indifferent  about  those  feelings  and  habitudes  which 
are  the  supports  of  the  moral  world.  Ambition  is  come  upon 
them  suddenly;  they  are  intoxicated  with  it,  and  it  has  rendered 
them  fearless  of  the  danger  which  may  from  thence  arise  to 


612  EDMUND   BURKE 

others  or  to  themselves.  These  philosophers  consider  men,  in 
their  experiments,  no  more  than  they  do  mice  in  an  air-pump 
or  in  a  recipient  of  mephitic  gas.  Whatever  his  Grace  may 
think  of  himself,  they  look  upon  him,  and  everything  that 
belongs  to  him,  with  no  more  regard  than  they  do  upon  the 
whiskers  of  that  little  long-tailed  animal  that  has  been  long 
the  game  of  the  grave,  demure,  insidious,  spring-nailed,  velvet- 
pawed,  green-eyed  philosophers,  whether  going  upon  two  legs 
or  upon  four. 

His  Grace's  landed  possessions  are  irresistibly  inviting  to  an 
agrarian  experiment.  They  are  a  downright  insult  upon  the 
Rights  of  Man.  They  are  more  extensive  than  the  territory  of 
many  of  the  Grecian  republics,  and  they  are  without  compari- 
son more  fertile  than  most  of  them.  There  are  now  republics  in 
Italy,  in  Germany,  and  in  Switzerland,  which  do  not  possess 
anything  like  so  fair  and  ample  a  domain.  There  is  scope  for 
seven  philosophers  to  proceed  in  their  analytical  experiments 
upon  Harrington's  seven  different  forms  of  republics,  in  the 
acres  of  this  one  Duke.  Hitherto  they  have  been  wholly  unpro- 
ductive to  speculation,  —  fitted  for  nothing  but  to  fatten  bul- 
locks, and  to  produce  grain  for  beer,  still  more  to  stupefy  the 
dull  English  understanding.  Abbe  Sieyes  has  whole  nests  of 
pigeon-holes  full  of  constitutions  ready-made,  ticketed,  sorted, 
and  numbered;  suited  to  every  season  and  every  fancy:  some 
with  the  top  of  the  pattern  at  the  bottom,  and  some  with  the 
bottom  at  the  top;  some  plain,  some  flowered;  some  distin- 
guished for  their  simplicity,  others  for  their  complexity;  some 
of  blood  color,  some  of  boue  de  Paris;  some  with  directories, 
others  without  a  direction;  some  with  councils  of  elders,  and 
councils  of  youngsters;  some  without  any  council  at  all.  Some 
where  the  electors  choose  the  representatives;  others,  where  the 
representatives  choose  the  electors.  Some  in  long  coats,  and 
some  in  short  coats;  some  with  pantaloons;  some  without 
breeches.  Some  with  five-shilling  qualifications;  some  totally 
unqualified.  So  that  no  constitution-fancier  may  go  unsuited 
from  his  shop,  provided  he  loves  a  pattern  of  pillage,  oppression, 
arbitrary  imprisonment,  confiscation,  exile,  revolutionary  judg- 
ment, and  legalized  premeditated  murder,  in  any  shapes  into 
which  they  can  be  put.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  the  progress  of 
experimental  philosophy  should  be  checked  by  his  Grace's 


LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD  613 

monopoly!  Such  are  their  sentiments,  I  assure  him;  such  is 
their  language,  when  they  dare  to  speak;  and  such  are  their 
proceedings,  when  they  have  the  means  to  act. 

Their  geographers  and  geometricians  have  been  some  time 
out  of  practice.  It  is  some  time  since  they  have  divided  their 
own  country  into  squares.  That  figure  has  lost  the  charms  of  its 
novelty.  They  want  new  lands  for  new  trials.  It  is  not  only  the 
geometricians  of  the  Republic  that  find  him  a  good  subject;  the 
chemists  have  bespoke  him,  after  the  geometricians  have  done 
with  him.  As  the  first  set  have  an  eye  on  his  Grace's  lands,  the 
chemists  are  not  less  taken  with  his  buildings.  They  consider 
mortar  as  a  very  anti-revolutionary  invention,  in  its  present 
state,  but,  properly  employed,  an  admirable  material  for  over- 
turning all  establishments.  They  have  found  that  the  gun- 
powder of  ruins  is  far  the  fittest  for  making  other  ruins,  and 
so  ad  infinitum.  They  have  calculated  what  quantity  of  matter 
convertible  into  nitre  is  to  be  found  in  Bedford  House,  in  Wo- 
burn  Abbey,  and  in  what  his  Grace  and  his  trustees  have  still 
suffered  to  stand  of  that  foolish  royalist,  Inigo  Jones,  in  Covent 
Garden.  Churches,  play-houses,  coffee-houses,  all  alike  are 
destined  to  be  mingled,  and  equalized,  and  blended  into  one 
common  rubbish;  and,  well  sifted  and  lixiviated,  to  crystallize 
into  true,  democratic,  explosive,  insurrectionary  nitre.  Their 
academy  del  Cimento1  (per  antiphrasiri),  with  Morveau  and 
Hassenfratz  at  its  head,  have  computed  that  the  brave  sans- 
culottes may  make  war  on  all  the  aristocracy  of  Europe  for  a 
twelve-month,  out  of  the  rubbish  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford's 
buildings. 

While  the  Morveaus  and  Priestleys  are  proceeding  with  these 
experiments  upon  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  houses,  the  Sieyes, 
and  the  rest  of  the  analytical  legislators  and  constitution- 
venders,  are  quite  as  busy  in  their  trade  of  decomposing  organ- 
ization, in  forming  his  Grace's  vassals  into  primary  assemblies, 
national  guards,  first,  second,  and  third  requisitioned,  com- 
mittees of  research,  conductors  of  the  traveling  guillotine, 
judges  of  revolutionary  tribunals,  legislative  hangmen,  super- 
visors of  domiciliary  visitation,  exactors  of  forced  loans,  and 
assessors  of  the  maximum. 

1  Experiment.  In  speaking  of  the  term  as  standing  for  its  opposite  (per  aniiphrasin) 
Burke  apparently  alludes  to  its  resemblance  to  cement. 


614  EDMUND  BURKE 

The  din  of  all  this  smithery  may  some  time  or  other  possibly 
wake  this  noble  Duke,  and  push  him  to  an  endeavor  to  save 
some  little  matter  from  their  experimental  philosophy.  If  he 
pleads  his  grants  from  the  Crown,  he  is  ruined  at  the  outset. 
If  he  pleads  he  has  received  them  from  the  pillage  of  supersti- 
tious corporations,  this  indeed  will  stagger  them  a  little,  be- 
cause they  are  enemies  to  all  corporations,  and  to  all  religion. 
However,  they  will  soon  recover  themselves,  and  will  tell  his 
Grace,  or  his  learned  counsel,  that  all  such  property  belongs  to 
the  nation;  and  that  it  would  be  more  wise  for  him,  if  he  wishes 
to  live  the  natural  term  of  a  citizen  (that  is,  according  to  Con- 
dorcet's  calculation,  six  months  on  an  average),  not  to  pass 
for  an  usurper  upon  the  national  property.  This  is  what  the 
Serjeants  at  law  of  the  Rights  of  Man  will  say  to  the  puny 
apprentices  of  the  common  law  of  England. 

Is  the  genius  of  philosophy  not  yet  known?  You  may  as  well 
think  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  was  well  protected  with  the 
cords  of  ribbon  insultingly  stretched  by  the  National  Assembly 
to  keep  the  sovereign  canaille  from  intruding  on  the  retirement 
of  the  poor  King  of  the  French,  as  that  such  flimsy  cobwebs 
will  stand  between  the  savages  of  the  Revolution  and  their 
natural  prey.  Deep  philosophers  are  no  triflers;  brave  sans- 
culottes are  no  formalists.  They  will  no  more  regard  a  Marquis 
of  Tavistock  than  an  Abbot  of  Tavistock ;  the  Lord  of  Woburn 
will  not  be  more  respectable  in  their  eyes  than  the  Prior  of 
Woburn ;  they  will  make  no  difference  between  the  superior  of 
a  Covent  Garden  of  nuns,  and  of  a  Covent  Garden  of  another 
description.  They  will  not  care  a  rush  whether  his  coat  is  long 
or  short;  whether  the  color  be  purple  or  blue-and-buff.  They 
will  not  trouble  their  heads  with  what  part  of  his  head  his  hair  is 
cut  from ;  and  they  will  look  with  equal  respect  on  a  tonsure  and 
a  crop.  Their  only  question  will  be  that  of  their  Legendre,  or 
some  other  of  their  legislative  butchers,  —  how  he  cuts  up? 
how  he  tallows  in  the  caul,  or  on  the  kidneys  ? 

Is  it  not  a  singular  phenomenon  that,  whilst  the  sans-culotte 
carcass-butchers  and  the  philosophers  of  the  shambles  are 
pricking  their  dotted  lines  upon  his  hide,  and,  like  the  print  of 
the  poor  ox  that  we  see  in  the  shop- windows  at  Charing  Cross, 
alive  as  he  is,  and  thinking  no  harm  in  the  world,  he  is  divided 
into  rumps,  and  sirloins,  and  briskets,  and  into  all  sorts  of 


LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD       615 

pieces  for  roasting,  boiling,  and  stewing,  —  that,  all  the  while 
they  are  measuring  him,  his  Grace  is  measuring  me,  —  is  in- 
vidiously comparing  the  bounty  of  the  Crown  with  the  deserts 
of  the  defender  of  his  order,  and  in  the  same  moment  fawning 
on  those  who  have  the  knife  half  out  of  the  sheath?  Poor  inno- 
cent! 

Pleas'd  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flow'ry  food, 

And  licks  the  hand  just  rais'd  to  shed  his  blood.  .  .  . 


THOMAS   PAINE 

THE  RIGHTS  OF  MAN 

% 

1791 

[Paine  was  a  citizen  of  the  world  rather  than  of  any  single  nation;  this 
work  appeared  while  he  was  living,  now  in  England,  now  in  France,  be- 
tween the  first  and  second  periods  of  his  American  residence.  The  pam- 
phlet is  a  reply  to  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  (see  the  introduc- 
tory note  to  the  extracts  from  that  work,  page  576,  above).  It  sold  very 
rapidly,  and  circulated  largely  in  America  and  in  France  as  well  as  in 
England.  A  second  part  followed  in  1792.  The  following  extracts  are  from 
the  first  part.] 

.  .  .  MR.  BURKE  appears  to  have  no  idea  of  principles,  when 
he  is  contemplating  governments.  ' '  Ten  years  ago, ' '  says  he,  "  I 
could  have  felicitated  France  on  her  having  a  government, 
without  inquiring  what  the  nature  of  that  government  was  or 
how  it  was  administered."  Is  this  the  language  of  a  rational 
man?  Is  it  the  language  of  a  heart  feeling  as  it  ought  to  feel  for 
the  rights  and  happiness  of  the  human  race?  On  this  ground, 
Mr.  Burke  must  compliment  all  the  governments  in  the  world, 
while  the  victims  who  suffer  under  them,  whether  sold  into 
slavery  or  tortured  out  of  existence,  are  wholly  forgotten.  It  is 
power,  and  not  principles,  that  Mr.  Burke  venerates;  and  under 
this  abominable  depravity,  he  is  disqualified  to  judge  between 
them.  Thus  much  for  his  opinion  as  to  the  occasion  of  the 
French  Revolution.  I  now  proceed  to  other  considerations. 

I  know  a  place  in  America  called  Point-no-Point,  because,  as 
you  proceed  along  the  shore,  gay  and  flowery  as  Mr.  Burke's 
language,  it  continually  recedes,  and  presents  itself  at  a  distance 
before  you;  and  when  you  have  got  as  far  as  you  can  go,  there 
is  no  point  at  all.  Just  thus  it  is  with  Mr.  Burke's  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-six  pages.  It  is  therefore  difficult  to  reply  to 
him.  But  as  the  points  that  he  wished  to  establish  may  be 
inferred  from  what  he  abuses,  it  is  in  his  paradoxes  that  we 
must  look  for  his  arguments. 

As  to  the  tragic  paintings  by  which  Mr.  Eurke  has  outraged 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  MAN  617 

his  own  imagination,  and  seeks  to  work  upon  that  of  his  read- 
ers, they  are  very  well  calculated  for  theatrical  representation, 
where  facts  are  manufactured  for  the  sake  of  show,  and  accom- 
modated to  produce,  through  the  weakness  of  sympathy,  a 
weeping  effect.  But  Mr.  Burke  should  recollect  that  he  is  writ- 
ing history,  and  not  plays;  and  that  his  readers  will  expect 
truth,  and  not  the  spouting  rant  of  high-toned  declamation. 

When  we  see  a  man  dramatically  lamenting,  in  a  publication 
intended  to  be  believed,  that  "the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone"; 
that  "the  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished  forever!";  that  "the 
unbought  grace  of  life  [if  any  one  knows  what  it  is],  the  cheap 
defense  of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic 
enterprise,  is  gone!"1;  and  all  this  because  the  Quixote  age  of 
chivalry  nonsense  is  gone,  what  opinion  can  we  form  of  his 
judgment,  or  what  regard  can  we  pay  to  his  facts?  In  the  rhap- 
sody of  his  imagination,  he  has  discovered  a  world  of  windmills, 
and  his  sorrows  are  that  there  are  no  Quixotes  to  attack  them. 
But  if  the  age  of  aristocracy,  like  that  of  chivalry,  should  fall, 
—  and  they  had  originally  some  connection,  —  Mr.  Burke,  the 
trumpeter  of  the  order,  may  continue  his  parody  to  the  end, 
and  finish  with  exclaiming,  "Othello's  occupation's  gone!" 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Burke's  horrid  paintings,  when  the 
French  Revolution  is  compared  with  the  revolutions  of  other 
countries,  the  astonishment  will  be  that  it  is  marked  with  so  few 
sacrifices;  but  this  astonishment  will  cease  when  we  reflect 
that  principles,  and  not  persons,  were  the  meditated  objects  of 
destruction.  The  mind  of  the  nation  was  acted  upon  by  a  higher 
stimulus  than  what  the  consideration  of  persons  could  inspire, 
and  sought  a  higher  conquest  than  could  be  produced  by  the 
downfall  of  an  enemy.  Among  the  few  who  fell,  there  do  not 
appear  to  be  any  that  were  intentionally  singled  out.  They  all 
of  them  had  their  fate  in  the  circumstances  of  the  moment,  and 
were  not  pursued  with  that  long,  cold-blooded,  unabated  re- 
venge which  pursued  the  unfortunate  Scotch  in  the  affair  of 

1745- 

Through  the  whole  of  Mr.  Burke's  book  I  do  not  observe 
that  the  Bastille  is  mentioned  more  than  once,  and  that  with 
a  kind  of  implication  as  if  he  were  sorry  it  was  pulled  down,  and 
wished  it  were  built  up  again.  "We  have  rebuilt  Newgate  [says 

1  See  page  588,  above. 


618  THOMAS   PAINE 

he]  and  tenanted  the  mansion;  and  we  have  prisons  almost  as 
strong  as  the  Bastille  for  those  who  dare  to  libel  the  queens  of 
France."  As  to  what  a  madman,  like  the  person  called  Lord 
George  Gordon,  might  say,  and  to  whom  Newgate  is  rather  a 
bedlam  than  a  prison,  it  is  unworthy  a  rational  consideration. 
It  was  a  madman  that  libeled  —  and  that  is  sufficient  apology, 
and  it  afforded  an  opportunity  for  confining  him,  which  was  the 
thing  that  was  wished  for.  But  certain  it  is  that  Mr.  Burke,  who 
does  not  call  himself  a  madman,  whatever  other  people  may  do, 
has  libeled,  in  the  most  unprovoked  manner,  and  in  the  grossest 
style  of  the  most  vulgar  abuse,  the  whole  representative  author- 
ity of  France;  and  yet  Mr.  Burke  takes  his  seat  in  the  British 
House  of  Commons!  From  his  violence  and  his  grief,  his  silence 
on  some  points  and  his  excess  on  others,  it  is  difficult  not  to 
believe  that  Mr.  Burke  is  sorry,  extremely  sorry,  that  arbi- 
trary power  —  the  power  of  the  Pope  and  the  Bastille  —  are 
pulled  down. 

Not  one  glance  of  compassion,  not  one  commiserating  reflec- 
tion, that  I  can  find  throughout  his  book,  has  he  bestowed  on 
those  who  lingered  out  the  most  wretched  of  lives,  a  life  with- 
out hope  in  the  most  miserable  of  prisons.  It  is  painful  to  be- 
hold a  man  employing  his  talents  to  corrupt  himself.  Nature 
has  been  kinder  to  Mr.  Burke  than  he  has  to  her.  He  is  not 
affected  by  the  reality  of  distress  touching  his  heart,  but 
by  the  showy  resemblance  of  it  striking  his  imagination.  He 
pities  the  plumage,  but  forgets  the  dying  bird.  Accustomed  to 
kiss  the  aristocratical  hand  that  hath  purloined  him  from  him- 
self, he  degenerates  into  a  composition  of  art,  and  the  genuine 
soul  of  nature  forsakes  him.  His  hero  or  his  heroine  must  be  a 
tragedy  victim,  expiring  in  show,  and  not  the  real  prisoner  of 
misery,  sliding  into  death  in  the  silence  of  a  dungeon.  .  .  . 

Before  anything  can  be  reasoned  upon  to  a  conclusion,  cer- 
tain facts,  principles,  or  data,  to  reason  from,  must  be  estab- 
lished, admitted,  or  denied.  Mr.  Burke,  with  his  usual  outrage, 
abuses  the  Declaration  of  the  Rights  of  Man,  published  by  the 
National  Assembly  of  France,  as  the  basis  on  which  the  con- 
stitution of  France  is  built.  This  he  calls  "paltry  and  blurred 
sheets  of  paper  about  the  rights  of  man."  Does  Mr.  Burke 
mean  to  deny  that  man  has  any  rights?  If  he  does,  then  he  must 
mean  that  there  are  no  such  things  as  rights  anywhere,  and  that 


THE  RIGHTS  OF   MAN  619 

he  has  none  himself;  for  who  is  there  in  the  world  but  man? 
But  if  Mr.  Burke  means  to  admit  that  man  has  rights,  the  ques- 
tion then  will  be,  What  are  those  rights,  and  how  came  man  by 
them  originally? 

The  error  of  those  who  reason  by  precedents  drawn  from  an- 
tiquity, respecting  the  rights  of  man,  is  that  they  do  not  go  far 
enough  into  antiquity.  They  do  not  go  the  whole  way.  They 
stop  in  some  of  the  intermediate  stages  of  an  hundred  or  a 
thousand  years,  and  produce  what  was  then  done  as  a  rule  for 
the  present  day.  This  is  no  authority  at  all.  If  we  travel  still 
farther  into  antiquity,  we  shall  find  a  direct  contrary  opin- 
ion and  practice  prevailing;  and,  if  antiquity  is  to  be  authority, 
a  thousand  such  authorities  may  be  produced,  successively 
contradicting  each  other.  But  if  we  proceed  on,  we  shall  at 
last  come  out  right;  we  shall  come  to  the  time  when  man  came 
from  the  hand  of  his  Maker.  What  was  he  then?  Man.  Man 
was  his  high  and  only  title,  and  a  higher  cannot  be  given  him. 
But  of  titles  I  shall  speak  hereafter. 

We  are  now  got  at  the  origin  of  man,  and  at  the  origin  of 
his  rights.  As  to  the  manner  in  which  the  world  has  been 
governed  from  that  day  to  this,  it  is  no  farther  any  concern 
of  ours  than  to  make  a  proper  use  of  the  errors  or  the  improve- 
ments which  the  history  of  it  presents.  Those  who  lived  a 
hundred  or  a  thousand  years  ago  were  then  moderns,  as  we  are 
now.  They  had  their  ancients,  and  those  ancients  had  others, 
and  we  also  shall  be  ancients  in  our  turn.  If  the  mere  name  of 
antiquity  is  to  govern  in  the  affairs  of  life,  the  people  who  are 
to  live  an  hundred  or  a  thousand  years  hence  may  as  well  take 
us  for  a  precedent,  as  we  make  a  precedent  of  those  who  lived 
an  hundred  or  a  thousand  years  ago.  The  fact  is,  that  portions 
of  antiquity,  by  proving  everything,  establish  nothing.  It  is 
authority  against  authority  all  the  way,  till  we  come  to  the 
divine  origin  of  the  rights  of  man,  at  the  creation.  Here  our 
inquiries  find  a  resting-place,  and  our  reason  finds  a  home.  If 
a  dispute  about  the  rights  of  man  had  arisen  at  the  distance  of 
an  hundred  years  from  the  creation,  it  is  to  this  source  of  author- 
ity they  must  have  referred,  and  it  is  to  the  same  source  of 
authority  that  we  must  now  refer. 

Though  I  mean  not  to  touch  upon  any  sectarian  principle  of 
religion,  yet  it  may  be  worth  observing  that  the  genealogy  of 


620  THOMAS  PAINE 

Christ  is  traced  to  Adam.  Why,  then,  not  trace  the  rights  of 
man  to  the  creation  of  man?  I  will  answer  the  question.  Be- 
cause there  have  been  upstart  governments,  thrusting  them- 
selves between,  and  presumptuously  working  to  un-make  man. 

If  any  generation  of  men  ever  possessed  the  right  of  dictat- 
ing the  mode  by  which  the  world  should  be  governed  forever, 
it  was  the  first  generation  that  existed;  and  if  that  generation 
did  not  do  it,  no  succeeding  generation  can  show  any  authority 
for  doing  it,  nor  can  set  any  up.  The  illuminating  and  divine 
principles  of  the  equal  rights  of  man  (for  it  has  its  origin  from 
the  Maker  of  man)  relates  not  only  to  the  living  individuals,  but 
to  generations  of  men  succeeding  each  other.  Every  generation 
is  equal  in  rights  to  the  generations  which  preceded  it,  by  the 
same  rule  that  every  individual  is  born  equal  in  rights  with  his 
contemporary. 

Every  history  of  the  creation,  and  every  traditionary  ac- 
count, whether  from  the  lettered  or  unlettered  world,  however 
they  may  vary  in  their  opinion  or  belief  of  certain  particulars, 
all  agree  in  establishing  one  point,  the  unity  of  man  ;  by  which 
I  mean  that  men  are  all  of  one  degree,  and  consequently  that 
all  men  are  born  equal,  and  with  equal  natural  right,  in  the  same 
manner  as  if  posterity  had  been  continued  by  creation  instead 
of  generation,  the  latter  being  only  the  mode  by  which  the  for- 
mer is  carried  forward ;  and  consequently,  every  child  born  into 
the  world  must  be  considered  as  deriving  its  existence  from  God. 
The  world  is  as  new  to  him  as  it  was  to  the  first  man  that  ex- 
isted, and  his  natural  right  in  it  is  of  the  same  kind. 

The  Mosaic  account  of  the  creation,  whether  taken  as  divine 
authority  or  merely  historical,  is  full  to  this  point,  the  unity 
or  equality  of  man.  The  expression  admits  of  no  contro- 
versy. "And  God  said,  let  us  make  man  in  our  image.  In 
the  image  of  God  created  he  him;  male  and  female  created  he 
them."  The  distinction  of  sexes  is  pointed  out,  but  no  other 
distinction  is  even  implied.  If  this  be  not  divine  authority,  it 
is  at  least  historical  authority,  and  shows  that  the  equality  of 
man,  so  far  from  being  a  modern  doctrine,  is  the  oldest  upon 
record. 

It  is  also  to  be  observed  that  all  the  religions  known  in  the 
world  are  founded,  so  far  as  they  relate  to  man,  on  the  unity  of 
man,  as  being  all  of  one  degree.  Whether  in  heaven  or  in  hell, 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  MAN  621 

or  in  whatever  state  man  may  be  supposed  to  exist  hereafter, 
the  good  and  the  bad  are  the  only  distinctions.  Nay,  even  the 
laws  of  governments  are  obliged  to  slide  into  this  principle,  by 
making  degrees  to  consist  in  crimes,  and  not  in  persons. 

It  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  truths,  and  of  the  highest 
advantage  to  cultivate.  By  considering  man  in  this  light,  and 
by  instructing  him  to  consider  himself  in  this  light,  it  places 
him  in  a  close  connection  with  all  his  duties,  whether  to 
his  Creator,  or  to  the  creation  of  which  he  is  a  part;  and  it  is 
only  when  he  forgets  his  origin,  or,  to  use  a  more  fashionable 
phrase,  his  birth  and  family,  that  he  becomes  dissolute.  It  is 
not  among  the  least  of  the  evils  of  the  present  existing  govern- 
ments in  all  parts  of  Europe,  that  man,  considered  as  man,  is 
thrown  back  to  a  vast  distance  from  his  Maker,  and  the  arti- 
ficial chasm  filled  up  with  a  succession  of  barriers,  or  sort  of 
turnpike  gates,  through  which  he  has  to  pass.  I  will  quote  Mr. 
Burke's  catalogue  of  barriers  that  he  has  set  up  between  man 
and  his  Maker.  Putting  himself  in  the  character  of  a  herald, 
he  says:  "We  fear  God  —  we  look  with  awe  to  kings  —  with 
affection  to  parliaments  —  with  duty  to  magistrates  —  with 
reverence  to  priests  —  and  with  respect  to  nobility."  Mr. 
Burke  has  forgotten  to  put  in  "chivalry."  He  has  also  for- 
gotten to  put  in  Peter. 

The  duty  of  man  is  not  a  wilderness  of  turnpike  gates, 
through  which  he  is  to  pass  by  tickets  from  one  to  the  other. 
It  is  plain  and  simple,  and  consists  but  of  two  points:  his  duty 
to  God,  which  every  man  must  feel,  and  with  respect  to  his 
neighbor,  to  do  as  he  would  be  done  by.  If  those  to  whom 
power  is  delegated  do  well,  they  will  be  respected;  if  not,  they 
will  be  despised.  And  with  regard  to  those  to  whom  no  power 
is  delegated,  but  who  assume  it,  the  rational  world  can  know 
nothing  of  them.  .  .  . 

The  rights  of  men  in  society  are  neither  devisable  or  trans- 
ferable, nor  annihilable,  but  are  descendable  only;  and  it  is  not 
in  the  power  of  any  generation  to  intercept  finally,  and  cut  off 
the  descent.  If  the  present  generation,  or  any  other,  are  dis- 
posed to  be  slaves,  it  does  not  lessen  the  right  of  the  succeeding 
generation  to  be  free;  wrongs  cannot  have  a  legal  descent. 
When  Mr.  Burke  attempts  to  maintain  that  the  "English  oa- 


622  THOMAS  PAINE 

tion  did,  at  the  Revolution  of  1688,  most  solemnly  renounce  and 
abdicate  their  rights  for  themselves,  and  for  all  their  posterity 
forever,"  he  speaks  a  language  that  merits  not  reply,  and  which 
can  only  excite  contempt  for  his  prostitute  principles,  or  pity 
for  his  ignorance. 

In  whatever  light  hereditary  succession,  as  growing  out  of 
the  will  and  testament  of  some  former  generation,  presents 
itself,  it  is  an  absurdity.  A  cannot  make  a  will  to  take  from  B 
his  property,  and  give  it  to  C ;  yet  this  is  the  manner  in  which 
(what  is  called)  hereditary  succession  by  law  operates.  A  cer- 
tain former  generation  made  a  will  to  take  away  the  rights  of 
the  commencing  generation  and  all  future  ones,  and  convey 
those  rights  to  a  third  person,  who  afterwards  comes  forward, 
and  tells  them,  in  Mr.  Burke's  language,  that  they  have  no 
rights,  —  that  their  rights  are  already  bequeathed  to  him,  and 
that  he  will  govern  in  contempt  of  them.  From  such  principles, 
and  such  ignorance,  good  Lord  deliver  the  world! 

But,  after  all,  what  is  this  metaphor  called  a  crown,  —  or 
rather,  what  is  monarchy?  Is  it  a  thing,  or  is  it  a  name,  or  is 
it  a  fraud?  Is  it  a  "  contrivance  of  human  wisdom,"  or  human 
craft,  to  obtain  money  from  a  nation  under  specious  pretences? 
Is  it  a  thing  necessary  to  a  nation?  If  it  is,  in  what  does  that 
necessity  consist?  what  service  does  it  perform?  what  is  its 
business?  and  what  are  its  merits?  Does  the  virtue  consist  in 
the  metaphor,  or  in  the  man?  Does  the  goldsmith  that  makes 
the  crown,  make  the  virtue  also?  Does  it  operate  like  Fortu- 
natus's  wishing-cap,  or  Harlequin's  wooden  sword?  Doth  it 
make  a  man  a  conjurer?  In  fine,  what  is  it?  It  appears  to  be 
something  going  much  out  of  fashion,  falling  into  ridicule,  and 
rejected  in  some  countries  both  as  unnecessary  and  expensive. 
In  America  it  is  considered  as  an  absurdity,  and  in  France  it 
has  so  far  declined  that  the  goodness  of  the  man,  and  the  respect 
for  his  personal  character,  are  the  only  things  that  preserve  the 
appearance  of  its  existence. 

If  government  be  what  Mr.  Burke  describes  it,  "a  contriv- 
ance of  human  wisdom,"  I  might  ask  him  if  wisdom  was  at  such 
a  low  ebb  in  England,  that  it  was  become  necessary  to  import 
it  from  Holland  and  from  Hanover?  But  I  will  do  the  country 
the  justice  to  say  that  was  not  the  case;  and  even  if  it  was, 
it  mistook  the  cargo.  The  wisdom  of  every  country,  when 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  MAN  623 

properly  exerted,  is  sufficient  for  all  its  purposes;  and  there 
could  exist  no  more  real  occasion  in  England  to  have  sent  for 
a  Dutch  stadtholder,  or  a  German  elector,  than  there  was  in 
America  to  have  done  a  similar  thing.  If  a  country  does  not 
understand  its  own  affairs,  how  is  a  foreigner  to  understand 
them,  who  knows  neither  its  laws,  its  manners,  nor  its  lan- 
guage? If  there  existed  a  man  so  transcendently  wise  above  all 
others,  that  his  wisdom  was  necessary  to  instruct  a  nation,  some 
reason  might  be  offered  for  monarchy;  but  when  we  cast  our 
eyes  about  a  country,  and  observe  how  every  part  understands 
its  own  affairs;  and  when  we  look  around  the  world,  and  see  that, 
of  all  men  in  it,  the  race  of  kings  are  the  most  insignificant  in 
capacity,  our  reason  cannot  fail  to  ask  us  —  What  are  those 
men  kept  for? 

If  there  is  anything  in  monarchy  which  we  people  of  America 
do  not  understand,  I  wish  Mr.  Burke  would  be  so  kind  as  to 
inform  us.  I  see  in  America  a  government  extending  over  a 
country  ten  times  as  large  as  England,  and  conducted  with 
regularity  for  a  fortieth  part  of  the  expense  which  government 
costs  in  England.  If  I  ask  a  man  in  America  if  he  wants  a  king, 
he  retorts,  and  asks  me  if  I  take  him  for  an  idiot.  How  is  it  that 
this  difference  happens?  Are  we  more  or  less  wise  than  others? 
I  see  in  America  the  generality  of  people  living  in  a  style  of 
plenty  unknown  in  monarchical  countries;  and  I  see  that  the 
principle  of  its  government,  which  is  that  of  the  equal  rights  of 
man,  is  making  a  rapid  progress  in  the  world.  .  .  . 


JAMES   BOSWELL 

THE   JOURNAL    OF   A   TOUR    TO    THE    HEBRIDES 
WITH  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,   LL.D. 

1786 

[The  tour  to  the  Hebrides  took  place  in  1773,  and  Johnson  published 
his  account  of  it  in  1775.  Two  yearsafter  his  death, Boswell  brought  out 
this  Journal,  which  was  a  kind  of  preliminary  section  of  the  Life  that  fol- 
lowed five  years  later.  (The  greater  part  of  the  earlier  work  was  incor- 
porated in  the  later.)  On  the  inception  of  the  biography,  see  Boswell's 
remarks  on  page  626,  below.  Two  other  preliminary  sections,  the  Letter 
to  Chesterfield  and  the  Conversation  with  George  III,  were  published  in 
1790.  The  success  of  the  Life  was  immediate,  and  destined  to  be  lasting 
beyond  that  of  any  other  biography  in  the  language.  For  the  attitude 
toward  it  of  Dr.  Johnson's  friends,  see  Miss  Burney's  Diary,  page  523, 
above.  The  biography  is  not  divided  into  chapters  or  sections;  the  pas- 
sages reprinted  below  may  be  found  in  the  edition  of  Dr.  Birkbeck  Hill, 
vol.  I,  pp.  227-259,  297-309,  337-343,  452-461,  476-482;  vol.  II,  37-46, 
270-276, 290-294, 337-3435  vol.  Ill,  74-90;  vol. IV,  40-42,  74-75, 359-371, 
490-496.] 

Saturday,  asth  September. 

.  .  .  DR.  JOHNSON  went  to  bed  soon.  When  one  bowl  of 
punch  was  finished,  I  rose,  and  was  near  the  door,  in  my  way 
upstairs  to  bed ;  but  Corrichatachin  said  it  was  the  first  time 
Col  had  been  in  his  house,  and  he  should  have  his  bowl;  and 
would  not  I  join  in  drinking  it?  The  heartiness  of  my  hon- 
est landlord,  and  the  desire  of  doing  social  honor  to  our  very 
obliging  conductor,  induced  me  to  sit  down  again.  Col's  bowl 
was  finished,  and  by  that  time  we  were  well  warmed.  A  third 
bowl  was  soon  made,  and  that  too  was  finished.  We  were  cor- 
dial and  merry  to  a  high  degree,  but  of  what  passed  I  have  no 
recollection,  with  any  accuracy.  I  remember  calling  Corricha- 
tachin by  the  familiar  appellation  of  Corri,  which  his  friends 
do.  A  fourth  bowl  was  made,  by  which  time  Col  and  young 
Mackinnon,  Corrichatachin's  son,  slipped  away  to  bed.  I  con- 
tinued a  little  with  Corri  and  Knockow,  but  at  last  I  left  them. 
It  was  near  five  in  the  morning  when  I  got  to  bed. 


A  TOUR  TO  THE  HEBRIDES  625 

Sunday,  September  26. 

I  awaked  at  noon,  with  a  severe  headache.  I  was  much  vexed 
that  I  should  have  been  guilty  of  such  a  riot,  and  afraid  of  a  re- 
proof from  Dr.  Johnson.  I  thought  it  very  inconsistent  with  that 
conduct  which  I  ought  to  maintain  while  the  companion  of  the 
"Rambler."  About  one,  he  came  into  my  room,  and  accosted 
me,  "What,  drunk  yet?"  His  tone  of  voice  was  not  that  of  se- 
vere upbraiding;  so  I  was  relieved  a  little.  "Sir,"  said  I,  "  they 
kept  me  up."  He  answered,  "No,  you  kept  them  up,  you 
drunken  dog."  This  he  said,  with  good-humored  English  pleas- 
antry. Soon  afterwards,  Corrichatachin,  Col,  and  other  friends 
assembled  round  my  bed.  Corri  had  a  brandy  bottle  and  glass 
with  him,  and  insisted  I  should  take  a  dram.  "Ay,"  said  Dr. 
Johnson,  "fill  him  drunk  again.  Do  it  in  the  morning,  that  we 
may  laugh  at  him  all  day.  It  is  a  poor  thing  for  a  fellow  to  get 
drunk  at  night,  and  skulk  to  bed,  and  let  his  friends  have  no 
sport."  Finding  him  thus  jocular,  I  became  quite  easy;  and 
when  I  offered  to  get  up,  he  very  good-naturedly  said,  "You 
need  be  in  no  such  hurry  now."  I  took  my  host's  advice,  and 
drank  some  brandy,  which  I  found  an  effectual  cure  for  my 
headache.  When  I  rose,  I  went  into  Dr.  Johnson's  room,  and, 
taking  up  Mrs.  Mackinnon's  prayer-book,  I  opened  it  at  the 
twentieth  Sunday  after  Trinity,  in  the  Epistle  for  which  I  read, 
"And  be  not  drunk  with  wine,  wherein  there  is  excess."  Some 
would  have  taken  this  as  a  divine  interposition.  .  .  . 

Monday,  October  n. 

We  had  some  days  ago  engaged  the  Campbelltown  vessel  to 
carry  us  to  Mull,  from  the  harbor  where  she  lay.  The  morning 
was  fine,  and  the  wind  fair  and  moderate;  so  we  hoped  at  length 
to  get  away.  Mrs.  Macsweyn,  who  officiated  as  our  landlady 
here,  had  never  been  on  the  mainland.  On  hearing  this,  Dr. 
Johnson  said  to  me,  before  her,  "That  is  rather  being  behind- 
hand with  life.  I  would  at  least  go  and  see  Glenelg."  BOSWELL: 
"You  yourself,  sir,  have  never  seen  anything  but  your  native 
island."  JOHNSON:  "But,  sir,  by  seeing  London,  I  have  seen  as 
much  of  life  as  the  world  can  show."  BOSWELL:  "  You  have  not 
seen  Pekin."  JOHNSON:  "What  is  Pekin?  Ten  thousand  Lon- 
doners would  drive  all  the  people  of  Pekin;  they  would  drive 
them  like  deer." 


626  JAMES  BOSWELL 

.  .  .  The  Sunday  evening  that  we  sat  by  ourselves  at  Aber- 
deen, I  asked  him  several  particulars  of  his  life,  from  his  early 
years,  which  he  readily  told  me,  and  I  wrote  them  down  before 
him.  This  day  I  proceeded  in  my  inquiries,  also  writing  them  in 
his  presence.  I  have  them  on  detached  sheets.  I  shall  collect 
authentic  materials  for  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.\ 
and,  if  I  survive  him,  I  shall  be  one  who  will  most  faithfully  do 
honor  to  his  memory.  I  have  now  a  vast  treasure  of  his  conver- 
sation, at  different  times,  since  the  year  1762,  when  I  first  ob- 
tained his  acquaintance;  and  by  assiduous  inquiry  I  can  make 
up  for  not  knowing  him  sooner. 

...  It  may  be  objected  by  some  persons,  as  it  has  been  by 
one  of  my  friends,  that  he  who  has  the  power  of  thus  exhibit- 
ing an  exact  transcript  of  conversations  is  not  a  desirable 
member  of  society.  I  repeat  the  answer  which  I  made  to  that 
friend:  "Few,  very  few,  need  be  afraid  that  their  sayings  will 
be  recorded.  Can  it  be  imagined  that  I  would  take  the  trouble 
to  gather  what  grows  on  every  hedge,  because  I  have  collected 
such  fruits  as  the  Nonpareil  and  the  Bon  Chretien?" 

On  the  other  hand,  how  useful  is  such  a  faculty,  if  well  ex- 
ercised! To  it  we  owe  all  those  interesting  apothegms  and 
memorabilia  of  the  ancients,  which  Plutarch,  Xenophon,  and 
Valerius  Maximus  have  transmitted  to  us.  To  it  we  owe  all 
those  instructive  and  entertaining  collections  which  the  French 
have  made  under  the  title  of  Ana,  affixed  to  some  celebrated 
name.  To  it  we  owe  the  Table  Talk  of  Selden,  the  Conversa- 
tion between  Ben  Jonson  and  Drummond  of  Hawthornden, 
Spence's  Anecdotes  of  Pope,  and  other  valuable  remains  in  our 
own  language.  How  delighted  should  we  have  been  if  thus  intro- 
duced into  the  company  of  Shakespeare  and  Dryden,  of  whom 
we  know  scarcely  anything  but  their  admirable  writings !  What 
pleasure  would  it  have  given  us  to  have  known  their  petty  hab- 
its, their  characteristic  manners,  their  modes  of  composition, 
and  their  genuine  opinion  of  preceding  writers  and  of  their  con- 
temporaries! All  these  are  now  irrecoverably  lost.  Considering 
how  many  of  the  strongest  and  most  brilliant  effusions  of  ex- 
alted intellect  must  have  perished,  how  much  is  it  to  be  regret- 
ted that  all  men  of  distinguished  wisdom  and  wit  have  not  been 
attended  by  friends  of  taste  enough  to  relish,  and  abilities 
enough  to  register,  their  conversation. 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    627 

Vixere  fortes  ante  Agamemnona 
Multi,  sed  omnes  illacrymabiles 
Urgentur,  ignotique  longa 
Node,  carent  quia  vate  sacro.1 

They  whose  inferior  exertions  are  recorded,  as  serving  to 
explain  or  illustrate  the  sayings  of  such  men,  may  be  proud  of 
being  thus  associated,  and  of  their  names  being  transmitted 
to  posterity,  by  being  appended  to  an  illustrious  character. 

Before  I  conclude,  I  think  it  proper  to  say  that  I  have  sup- 
pressed everything  which  I  thought  could  really  hurt  any  one 
now  living.  Vanity  and  self-conceit  indeed  may  sometimes 
suffer.  With  respect  to  what  is  related,  I  considered  it  my  duty 
to  "extenuate  nothing,  nor  set  down  aught  in  malice";  and 
with  those  lighter  strokes  of  Dr.  Johnson's  satire,  proceeding 
from  a  warmth  and  quickness  of  imagination,  not  from  any 
malevolence  of  heart,  and  which  on  account  of  their  excellence 
could  not  be  omitted,  I  trust  that  they  who  are  the  subject  of 
them  have  good  sense  and  good  temper  enough  not  to  be  dis- 
pleased. 

I  have  only  to  add  that  I  shall  ever  reflect  with  great  pleasure 
on  a  tour  which  has  been  the  means  of  preserving  so  much  of 
the  enlightened  and  instructive  conversation  of  one  whose 
virtues  will,  I  hope,  ever  be  an  object  of  imitation,  and  whose 
powers  of  mind  were  so  extraordinary  that  ages  may  revolve 
before  such  a  man  shall  again  appear. 

THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D. 
1791 

["IRENE"  AND  "THE  RAMBLER"] 

GARRICK  being  now  vested  with  theatrical  power  by  being 
manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  he  kindly  and  generously 
made  use  of  it  to  bring  out  Johnson's  tragedy,  which  had  been 
long  kept  back  for  want  of  encouragement.  But  in  this  bene- 
volent purpose  he  met  with  no  small  difficulty  from  the  temper 
of  Johnson,  which  could  not  brook  that  a  drama  which  he  had 
formed  with  much  study,  and  had  been  obliged  to  keep  more 
than  the  nine  years  of  Horace,  should  be  revised  and  altered  at 

1  See  note  to  page  464,  above. 


628  JAMES  BOSWELL 

the  pleasure  of  an  actor.  Yet  Garrick  knew  well  that  without 
some  alterations  it  would  not  be  fit  for  the  stage.  A  violent 
dispute  having  ensued  between  them,  Garrick  applied  to  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Taylor  to  interpose.  Johnson  was  at  first  very 
obstinate.  "Sir,"  said  he,  "the  fellow  wants  me  to  make  Ma- 
homet run  mad,  that  he  may  have  an  opportunity  of  tossing  his 
hands  and  kicking  his  heels."  He  was,  however,  at  last  with 
difficulty  prevailed  on  to  comply  with  Garrick's  wishes,  so  as 
to  allow  of  some  changes;  but  still  there  were  not  enough. 

Dr.  Adams  was  present  the  first  night  of  the  representation  of 
Irene,  and  gave  me  the  following  account.  "Before  the  curtain 
drew  up,  there  were  catcalls  whistling,  which  alarmed  Johnson's 
friends.  The  Prologue,  which  was  written  by  himself  in  a  manly 
strain,  soothed  the  audience,  and  the  play  went  off  tolerably, 
till  it  came  to  the  conclusion,  when  Mrs.  Pritchard,  the  heroine 
of  the  piece,  was  to  be  strangled  upon  the  stage,  and  was 
to  speak  two  lines  with  the  bow-string  round  her  neck.  The 
audience  cried  out '  Murder !  Murder ! '  She  several  times  at- 
tempted to  speak,  but  in  vain.  At  last  she  was  obliged  to  go  off 
the  stage  alive."  This  passage  was  afterwards  struck  out,  and 
she  was  carried  off  to  be  put  to  death  behind  the  scenes,  as  the 
play  now  has  it.  ... 

Notwithstanding  all  the  support  of  such  performers  as  Gar- 
rick, Barry,  Mrs.  Gibber,  Mrs.  Pritchard,  and  every  advantage 
of  dress  and  decoration,  the  tragedy  of  Irene  did  not  please  the 
public.  Mr.  Garrick's  zeal  carried  it  through  for  nine  nights,  so 
that  the  author  had  his  three  nights'  profits;  and  from  a  re- 
ceipt signed  by  him,  now  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  James  Dodsley, 
it  appears  that  his  friend  Mr.  Robert  Dodsley  gave  him  one 
hundred  pounds  for  the  copy,  with  his  usual  reservation  of  the 
right  of  one  edition. 

Irene,  considered  as  a  poem,  is  entitled  to  the  praise  of  su- 
perior excellence.  Analyzed  into  parts,  it  will  furnish  a  rich 
store  of  noble  sentiments,  fine  imagery,  and  beautiful  language; 
but  it  is  deficient  in  pathos,  in  that  delicate  power  of  touching 
the  human  feelings,  which  is  the  principal  end  of  the  drama. 
Indeed  Garrick  has  complained  to  me  that  Johnson  not  only 
had  not  the  faculty  of  producing  the  impressions  of  tragedy, 
but  that  he  had  not  the  sensibility  to  perceive  them.  His  great 
friend  Mr.  Walmsley's  prediction,  that  he  would  "turn  out  a 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,   LL.D.    629 

fine  tragedy-writer,"  was  therefore  ill  founded.  Johnson  was 
wise  enough  to  be  convinced  that  he  had  not  the  talents  neces- 
sary to  write  successfully  for  the  stage,  and  never  made  another 
attempt  in  that  species  of  composition. 

When  asked  how  he  felt  upon  the  ill  success  of  his  tragedy, 
he  replied,  "Like  the  Monument";  meaning  that  he  continued 
firm  and  unmoved  as  that  column.  And  let  it  be  remembered, 
as  an  admonition  to  the  genus  irritabile  of  dramatic  writers, 
that  this  great  man,  instead  of  peevishly  complaining  of  the 
bad  taste  of  the  town,  submitted  to  its  decision  without  a  mur- 
mur. He  had,  indeed,  upon  all  occasions,  a  great  deference  for 
the  general  opinion.  "A  man,"  said  he,  "who  writes  a  book, 
thinks  himself  wiser  or  wittier  than  the  rest  of  mankind;  he 
supposes  that  he  can  instruct  or  amuse  them,  and  the  public  to 
whom  he  appeals  must,  after  all,  be  the  judges  of  his  preten- 
sions." .  .  . 

In  1750  he  came  forth  in  the  character  for  which  he  was 
eminently  qualified,  a  majestic  teacher  of  moral  and  religious 
wisdom.  The  vehicle  which  he  chose  was  that  of  a  periodical 
paper,  which  he  knew  had  been  upon  former  occasions  em- 
ployed with  great  success.  The  Taller,  Spectator,  and  Guardian 
were  the  last  of  the  kind  published  in  England,  which  had  stood 
the  test  of  a  long  trial;  and  such  an  interval  had  now  elapsed 
since  their  publication  as  made  him  justly  think  that,  to  many 
of  his  readers,  this  form  of  instruction  would  in  some  degree 
have  the  advantage  of  novelty.  A  few  days  before  the  first  of 
his  Essays  came  out,  there  started  another  competitor  for  fame 
in  the  same  form,  under  the  title  of  The  Tatter  Revived,  which 
I  believe  was  "born  but  to  die."  Johnson  was,  I  think,  not  verj 
happy  in  the  choice  of  his  title,  The  Rambler,  which  certainly 
is  not  suited  to  a  series  of  grave  and  moral  discourses,  which  the 
Italians  have  literally,  but  ludicrously,  translated  by  II  Vaga- 
bondo,  and  which  had  been  lately  assumed  as  the  denomination 
of  a  vehicle  of  licentious  tales,  The  Rambler's  Magazine.  He 
gave  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  the  following  account  of  its  getting 
this  name.  "  What  must  be  done,  sir,  will  be  done.  When  I  was 
to  begin  publishing  that  paper,  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  name  it. 
I  sat  down  at  night  upon  my  bedside,  and  resolved  that  I  would 
not  go  to  sleep  till  I  had  fixed  its  title.  The  Rambler  seemed 
the  best  that  occurred,  and  I  took  it." 


630  JAMES  BOSWELL 

With  what  devout  and  conscientious  sentiments  this  paper 
was  undertaken,  is  evidenced  by  the  following  prayer,  which  he 
composed  and  offered  up  on  the  occasion:  — 

"Almighty  God,  the  giver  of  all  good  things,  without  whose  help  all 
labor  is  ineffectual,  and  without  whose  grace  all  wisdom  is  folly,  grant,  I 
beseech  Thee,  that  in  this  undertaking  thy  Holy  Spirit  may  not  be  with- 
held from  me,  but  that  I  may  promote  thy  glory,  and  the  salvation  of  my- 
self and  others;  grant  this,  O  Lord,  for  the  sake  of  thy  Son,  Jesus  Christ. 
Amen." 

The  first  paper  of  the  Rambler  was  published  on  Tuesday  the 
2oth  of  March,  1749-50;  and  its  author  was  enabled  to  continue 
it,  without  interruption,  every  Tuesday  and  Saturday,  till 
Saturday,  the  iyth  of  March,  1752,  on  which  day  it  closed. 
This  is  a  strong  confirmation  of  the  truth  of  a  remark  of  his, 
which  I  have  had  occasion  to  quote  elsewhere,  that  "a  man 
may  write  at  any  time,  if  he  will  set  himself  doggedly  to  it"; 
for,  notwithstanding  his  constitutional  indolence,  his  depres- 
sion of  spirits,  and  his  labor  in  carrying  on  his  Dictionary,  he 
answered  the  stated  calls  of  the  press  twice  a  week  from  the 
stores  of  his  mind,  during  all  that  time;  having  received  no 
assistance,  except  four  billets  in  No.  10,  by  Miss  Mulso,  now 
Mrs.  Chapone;  No.  30,  by  Mrs.  Catherine  Talbot;  No.  97,  by 
Mr.  Samuel  Richardson,  whom  he  describes  in  an  introductory 
note  as  "an  author  who  has  enlarged  the  knowledge  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  taught  the  passions  to  move  at  the  com- 
mand of  virtue";  and  Numbers  44  and  100,  by  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Carter. 

Posterity  will  be  astonished  when  they  are  told,  upon  the 
authority  of  Johnson  himself,  that  many  of  these  discourses, 
which  we  should  suppose  had  been  labored  with  all  the  slow  at- 
tention of  literary  leisure,  were  written  in  haste  as  the  moment 
pressed,  without  even  being  read  over  by  him  before  they  were 
printed.  It  can  be  accounted  for  only  in  this  way:  that  by 
reading  and  meditation,  and  a  very  close  inspection  of  life,  he 
had  accumulated  a  great  fund  of  miscellaneous  knowledge, 
which,  by  a  peculiar  promptitude  of  mind,  was  ever  ready  at 
his  call,  and  which  he  had  constantly  accustomed  himself  to 
clothe  in  the  most  apt  and  energetic  expression.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  once  asked  him  by  what  means  he  had  attained  his 
extraordinary  accuracy  and  flow  of  language.  He  told  him  that 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     631 

he  had  early  laid  it  down  as  a  fixed  rule  to  do  his  best  on  every 
occasion,  and  in  every  company,  to  impart  whatever  he  knew 
in  the  most  forcible  language  he  could  put  it  in;  and  that  by 
constant  practice,  and  never  suffering  any  careless  expressions 
to  escape  him,  or  attempting  to  deliver  his  thoughts  without 
arranging  them  in  the  clearest  manner,  it  became  habitual  to 
him.  .  .  . 

As  the  Rambler  was  entirely  the  work  of  one  man,  there  was, 
of  course,  such  a  uniformity  in  its  texture  as  very  much  to  ex- 
clude the  charm  of  variety;  and  the  grave  and  often  solemn 
cast  of  thinking,  which  distinguished  it  from  other  periodical 
papers,  made  it  for  some  time  not  generally  liked.  So  slowly 
did  this  excellent  work,  of  which  twelve  editions  have  now 
issued  from  the  press,  gain  upon  the  world  at  large,  that  even 
in  the  closing  number  the  author  says, "  I  have  never  been  much 
a  favorite  of  the  public." 

Yet,  very  soon  after  its  commencement,  there  were  who  felt 
and  acknowledged  its  uncommon  excellence.  Verses  in  its 
praise  appeared  in  the  newspapers;  and  the  editor  of  the  Gen- 
tleman's Magazine  mentions,  in  October,  his  having  received 
several  letters  to  the  same  purpose  from  the  learned.  Tlie  Stu- 
dent, or  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Miscellany,  in  which  Mr.  Bonnell 
Thornton  and  Mr.  Colman  were  the  principal  writers,  describes 
it  as  "a  work  that  exceeds  anything  of  the  kind  ever  published 
in  this  kingdom,  some  of  the  'Spectators'  excepted — if,  indeed 
they  may  be  excepted."  And  afterwards,  "May  the  public 
favors  crown  his  merits,  and  may  not  the  English,  under  the 
auspicious  reign  of  George  the  Second,  neglect  a  man  who,  had 
he  lived  in  the  first  century,  would  have  been  one  of  the  greatest 
favorites  of  Augustus."  This  flattery  of  the  monarch  had  no 
effect.  It  is  too  well  known  that  the  second  George  never  was 
an  Augustus  to  learning  or  genius. 

Johnson  told  me,  with  an  amiable  fondness,  a  little  pleasing 
circumstance  relative  to  this  work.  Mrs.  Johnson,  in  whose 
judgment  and  taste  he  had  great  confidence,  said  to  him,  after 
a  few  numbers  of  the  Rambler  had  come  out,  "I  thought  very 
well  of  you  before;  but  I  did  not  imagine  you  could  have  writ- 
ten anything  equal  to  this."  Distant  praise,  from  whatever 
quarter,  is  not  so  delightful  as  that  of  a  wife  whom  a  man  loves 
and  esteems.  Her  approbation  may  be  said  to  "come  home  to 


632  JAMES  BOSWELL 

his  bosom,"  and  being  so  near,  its  effect  is  most  sensible  and 
permanent.  .  .  . 

To  point  out  the  numerous  subjects  which  the  Rambler 
treats,  with  a  dignity  and  perspicuity  which  are  there  united 
in  a  manner  which  we  shall  in  vain  look  for  anywhere  else, 
would  take  up  too  large  a  portion  of  my  book,  and  would,  I 
trust,  be  superfluous,  considering  how  universally  those  vol- 
umes are  now  disseminated.  Even  the  most  condensed  and 
brilliant  sentences  which  they  contain,  and  which  have  very 
oroperly  been  selected  under  the  name  of  Beauties,  are  of  con- 
siderable bulk.  But  I  may  shortly  observe  that  the  Rambler 
furnishes  such  an  assemblage  of  discourses  on  practical  religion 
and  moral  duty,  of  critical  investigations,  and  allegorical  and 
Oriental  tales,  that  no  mind  can  be  thought  very  deficient  that 
has,  by  constant  study  and  meditation,  assimilated  to  itself  all 
that  may  be  found  there.  .  .  .  Though  instruction  be  the  pre- 
dominant purpose  of  the  Rambler,  yet  it  is  enlivened  with  a 
considerable  portion  of  amusement.  Nothing  can  be  more 
erroneous  than  the  notion  which  some  persons  have  entertained, 
that  Johnson  was  then  a  retired  author,  ignorant  of  the  world, 
and,  of  consequence,  that  he  wrote  only  from  his  imagination, 
when  he  described  characters  and  manners.  He  said  to  me  that 
before  he  wrote  that  work  he  had  been  "running  about  the 
world,"  as  he  expressed  it,  more  than  almost  anybody;  and  I 
have  heard  him  relate  with  much  satisfaction  that  several  of 
the  characters  in  the  Rambler  were  drawn  so  naturally  that, 
when  it  first  circulated  in  numbers,  a  club  in  one  of  the  towns 
of  Essex  imagined  themselves  to  be  severely  exhibited  in  it,  and 
were  much  incensed  against  a  person  who,  they  suspected,  had 
thus  made  them  objects  of  public  notice;  nor  were  they  quieted 
till  authentic  assurance  was  given  them  that  the  Rambler  was 
written  by  a  person  who  had  never  heard  of  any  one  of  them. 
Some  of  the  characters  are  believed  to  have  been  actually  drawn 
from  the  life,  particularly  that  of  Prospero  from  Garrick,  who 
never  entirely  forgave  its  pointed  satire.  .  .  . 

The  style  of  this  work  has  been  censured  by  some  shallow 
critics  as  involved  and  turgid,  and  abounding  with  antiquated 
and  hard  words.  So  ill-founded  is  the  first  part  of  this  objec- 
tion, that  I  will  challenge  all  who  may  honor  this  book  with 
a  perusal,  to  point  out  any  English  writer  whose  language  con- 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    633 

veys  his  meaning  with  equal  force  and  perspicuity.  It  must, 
indeed,  be  allowed  that  the  structure  of  his  sentences  is  ex- 
panded, and  often  has  somewhat  the  inversion  of  the  Latin, 
and  that  he  delighted  to  express  familiar  thoughts  in  philo- 
sophical language,  being  in  this  the  reverse  of  Socrates,  who,  it 
was  said,  reduced  philosophy  to  the  simplicity  of  common  life. 
But  let  us  attend  to  what  he  himself  says  in  his  concluding 
paper:  "When  common  words  were  less  pleasing  to  the  ear,  or 
less  distinct  in  their  signification,  I  have  familiarized  the  terms 
of  philosophy  by  applying  them  to  popular  ideas."  And  as  to 
the  second  part  of  this  objection,  upon  a  late  careful  revision 
of  the  work  I  can  with  confidence  say  that  it  is  amazing  how 
few  of  those  words,  for  which  it  has  been  unjustly  characterized, 
are  actually  to  be  found  in  it;  I  am  sure,  not  the  proportion  of 
one  to  each  paper.  This  idle  charge  has  been  echoed  from  one 
babbler  to  another,  who  have  confounded  Johnson's  Essays 
with  Johnson's  Dictionary,  and,  because  he  thought  it  right 
in  a  lexicon  of  our  language  to  collect  many  words  which  had 
fallen  into  disuse,  but  were  supported  by  great  authorities,  it 
has  been  imagined  that  all  of  these  have  been  interwoven  into 
his  own  compositions.  That  some  of  them  have  been  adopted 
by  him  unnecessarily,  may  perhaps  be  allowed ;  but  in  general 
they  are  evidently  an  advantage,  for  without  them  his  stately 
ideas  would  be  confined  and  cramped.  "He  that  thinks  with 
more  extent  than  another,  will  want  words  of  larger  meaning." 
He  once  told  me  that  he  had  formed  his  style  upon  that  of  Sir 
William  Temple  and  upon  Chambers's  Proposal  for  his  Diction- 
ary. He  certainly  was  mistaken;  or  if  he  imagined  at  first  that 
he  was  imitating  Temple,  he  was  very  unsuccessful,  for  nothing 
can  be  more  unlike  than  the  simplicity  of  Temple  and  the  richness 
of  Johnson.  Their  styles  differ  as  plain  cloth  and  brocade.  .  .  . 
Johnson's  language,  however,  must  be  allowed  to  be  too  mas- 
culine for  the  delicate  gentleness  of  female  writing.  His  ladies, 
therefore,  seem  strangely  formal,  even  to  ridicule,  and  are  well 
denominated  by  the  names  which  he  has  given  them,  —  as 
Misella,  Zozima,  Properantia,  Rhodoclia. 

[DR.   JOHNSON   AND   LORD   CHESTERFIELD] 

Lord  Chesterfield,  to  whom  Johnson  had  paid  the  high  com- 
pliment of  addressing  to  his  Lordship  the  Plan  of  his  Diction- 


634  JAMES  BOSWELL 

ary,  had  behaved  to  him  in  such  a  manner  as  to  excite  his  con- 
tempt and  indignation.  The  world  has  for  many  years  been 
amused  with  a  story,  confidently  told  and  as  confidently  re- 
peated with  additional  circumstances,  that  a  sudden  disgust 
was  taken  by  Johnson  upon  occasion  of  his  having  been  one  day 
kept  long  in  waiting  in  his  lordship's  antechamber,  for  which 
the  reason  assigned  was  that  he  had  company  with  him ;  and 
that  at  last,  when  the  door  opened,  out  walked  Colley  Gibber; 
and  that  Johnson  was  so  violently  provoked  when  he  found  for 
whom  he  had  been  so  long  excluded  that  he  went  away  in  a 
passion,  and  never  would  return.  I  remember  having  men- 
tioned this  story  to  George  Lord  Lyttelton,  who  told  me  he  was 
very  intimate  with  Lord  Chesterfield,  and,  holding  it  as  a  well- 
known  truth,  defended  Lord  Chesterfield  by  saying  that  Gibber, 
who  had  been  introduced  familiarly  by  the  back  stairs,  had 
probably  not  been  there  above  ten  minutes.  It  may  seem 
strange  even  to  entertain  a  doubt  concerning  a  story  so  long 
and  so  widely  current,  and  thus  implicitly  adopted,  if  not  sanc- 
tioned, by  the  authority  which  I  have  mentioned;  but  Johnson 
himself  assured  me  that  there  was  not  the  least  foundation  for 
it.  He  told  me  that  there  never  was  any  particular  incident 
which  produced  a  quarrel  between  Lord  Chesterfield  and  him, 
but  that  his  lordship's  continued  neglect  was  the  reason  why 
he  resolved  to  have  no  connection  with  him. 

When  the  Dictionary  was  upon  the  eve  of  publication,  Lord 
Chesterfield,  who,  it  is  said,  had  flattered  himself  with  expecta- 
tions that  Johnson  would  dedicate  the  work  to  him,  attempted, 
in  a  courtly  manner,  to  soothe  and  insinuate  himself  with  the 
sage,  —  conscious,  as  it  should  seem,  of  the  cold  indifference 
with  which  he  had  treated  its  learned  author;  and  further  at- 
tempted to  conciliate  him  by  writing  two  papers  in  The  World 
in  recommendation  of  the  work;  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
they  contain  some  studied  compliments,  so  finely  turned  that, 
if  there  had  been  no  previous  offense,  it  is  probable  that  John- 
son would  have  been  highly  delighted.  Praise,  in  general,  was 
pleasing  to  him;  but  by  praise  from  a  man  of  rank  and  elegant 
accomplishments  he  was  peculiarly  gratified.  .  .  . 

This  courtly  device  failed  of  its  effect.  Johnson,  who  thought 
that  "all  was  false  and  hollow,"  despised  the  honeyed  words, 
and  was  even  indignant  that  Lord  Chesterfield  should  for  a 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     635 

moment  imagine  that  he  could  be  the  dupe  of  such  an  artifice. 
His  expression  to  me  concerning  Lord  Chesterfield,  upon  this 
occasion,  was,  "Sir,  after  making  great  professions,  he  had 
for  many  years  taken  no  notice  of  me;  but  when  my  Dictionary 
was  coming  out,  he  fell  a-scribbling  in  The  World  about  it. 
Upon  which  I  wrote  him  a  letter  expressed  in  civil  terms,  but 
such  as  might  show  him  that  I  did  not  mind  what  he  said  or 
wrote,  and  that  I  had  done  with  him." 

This  is  that  celebrated  letter  of  which  so  much  has  been  said, 
and  about  which  curiosity  has  been  so  long  excited  without 
being  gratified.  I  for  many  years  solicited  Johnson  to  favor  me 
with  a  copy  of  it,  that  so  excellent  a  composition  might  not  be 
lost  to  posterity.  He  delayed  from  time  to  time  to  give  it  to  me; 
till  at  last,  in  1781,  when  we  were  on  a  visit  at  Mr.  Dilly's,  at 
Southill  in  Bedfordshire,  he  was  pleased  to  dictate  it  to  me 
from  memory.  He  afterwards  found  among  his  papers  a  copy 
of  it,  which  he  had  dictated  to  Mr.  Baretti,  with  its  title  and 
corrections  in  his  own  handwriting.  This  he  gave  to  Mr.  Lang- 
ton,  adding  that  if  it  were  to  come  into  print,  he  wished  it  to  be 
from  that  copy.  By  Mr.  Langton's  kindness  I  am  enabled  to 
enrich  my  work  with  a  perfect  transcript  of  what  the  world  has 
so  eagerly  desired  to  see. 

February  7,  1775. 

To  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  THE  EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD. 
MY  LORD, 

I  have  been  lately  informed  by  the  proprietor  of  The  World  that  two 
papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to  the  public,  were  writ- 
ten by  your  lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished  is  an  honor  which,  being 
very  little  accustomed  to  favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to 
receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited  your  Lordship, 
I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the  enchantment  of  your 
address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish  that  I  might  boast  myself  le  vain- 
qucur  du  vainqueur  de  la  terre;  — that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for 
which  I  saw  the  world  contending.  But  I  found  my  attendance  so  little 
encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue 
it.  When  I  had  once  addressed  your  Lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted 
all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess. 
I  had  done  all  that  I  could;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all 
neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in  your  outward 
rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door;  during  which  time  I  have  beea 
pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain, 


636  JAMES  BOSWELL 

and  have  brought  it  at  last  to  the  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of 
assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treat- 
ment I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love,  and  found 
him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  mat, 
struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached  ground,  encum- 
bers him  with  help?  The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of 
my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I 
am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  im- 
part it;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical 
asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or 
to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron 
which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation  to  any 
favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  I  shall  conclude  it, 
if  less  be  possible,  with  less;  for  I  have  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of 
hope  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself,  with  so  much  exultation. 
My  Lord,  your  lordship's  most  humble, 

Most  obedient  servant, 

SAM.  JOHNSON. 

.  .  .  There  is  a  curious  minute  circumstance  which  struck 
me,  in  comparing  the  various  editions  of  Johnson's  Imitations 
of  Juvenal.  In  the  tenth  Satire,  one  of  the  couplets  upon  the 
vanity  of  wishes  even  for  literary  distinction  stood  thus: — 

Yet  think  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail, 
Pride,1  envy,  want,  the  garret,  and  the  jail. 

But  after  experiencing  the  uneasiness  which  Lord  Chester- 
field's fallacious  patronage  made  him  feel,  he  dismissed  the 
word  garret  from  the  sad  group,  and  in  all  subsequent  editions 
the  line  stands:  — 

Pride,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail. 

That  Lord  Chesterfield  must  have  been  mortified  by  the  lofty 
contempt,  and  polite  yet  keen  satire,  with  which  Johnson  ex- 
hibited him  to  himself  in  this  letter,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt. 
He,  however,  with  that  glossy  duplicity  which  was  his  constant 
study,  affected  to  be  quite  unconcerned.  Dr.  Adams  mentioned 
to  Mr.  Robert  Dodsley  that  he  was  sorry  Johnson  had  written 
his  letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield.  Dodsley,  with  the  true  feelings 
of  trade,  said  "he  was  very  sorry  too;  for  that  he  had  a  property 
in  the  Dictionary,  to  which  his  lordship's  patronage  might  have 

1  "Pride  "  is  misquoted  for  toil. 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     637 

been  of  consequence."  He  then  told  Dr.  Adams  that  Lord 
Chesterfield  had  shown  him  the  letter.  "I  should  have  im- 
agined," replied  Dr.  Adams,  "that  Lord  Chesterfield  would 
have  concealed  it."  "Poh!"  said  Dodsley,  "do  you  think  ii 
letter  from  Johnson  could  hurt  Lord  Chesterfield?  Not  at  all, 
sir.  It  lay  upon  his  table,  where  anybody  might  see  it.  He 
read  it  to  me;  said,  'This  man  has  great  powers,'  pointed  out 
the  severest  passages,  and  observed  how  well  they  were  ex- 
pressed." This  air  of  indifference,  which  imposed  upon  the 
worthy  Dodsley,  was  certainly  nothing  but  a  specimen  of  that 
dissimulation  which  Lord  Chesterfield  inculcated  as  one  of  the 
most  essential  lessons  for  the  conduct  of  life.  His  lordship 
endeavored  to  justify  himself  to  Dodsley  from  the  charges 
brought  against  him  by  Johnson;  but  we  may  judge  of  the  flim- 
siness  of  his  defense,  from  his  having  excused  his  neglect  of 
Johnson  by  saying  that  "he  had  heard  he  had  changed  his  lodg- 
ings, and  did  not  know  where  he  lived";  as  if  there  could  have 
been  the  smallest  difficulty  to  inform  himself  of  that  circum- 
stance, by  inquiring  in  the  literary  circle  with  which  his  lord- 
ship was  well  acquainted,  and  was  indeed  himself  one  of  its 
ornaments. 

Dr.  Adams  expostulated  with  Johnson,  and  suggested  that 
his  not  being  admitted  when  he  called  on  him  was  probably  not 
to  be  imputed  to  Lord  Chesterfield;  for  his  lordship  had  de- 
clared to  Dodsley  that  "he  would  have  turned  off  the  best  serv- 
ant he  ever  had,  if  he  had  known  that  he  denied  him  to  a  man 
who  would  have  been  always  more  than  welcome";  and  in 
confirmation  of  this  he  insisted  on  Lord  Chesterfield's  general 
affability  and  easiness  of  access,  especially  to  literary  men,, 
"Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "that  is  not  Lord  Chesterfield;  he  is  the 
proudest  man  this  day  existing."  "No,"  said  Dr.  Adams, 
"there  is  one  person,  at  least,  as  proud;  I  think,  by  your  own 
account,  you  are  the  prouder  man  of  the  two."  "But  mine," 
replied  Johnson  instantly,  "was  defensive  pride."  This,  as  Dr. 
Adams  well  observed,  was  one  of  those  happy  turns  for  which 
he  was  so  remarkably  ready. 

Johnson,  having  now  explicitly  avowed  his  opinion  of  Lord 
Chesterfield,  did  not  refrain  from  expressing  himself  concerning 
that  nobleman  with  a  pointed  freedom.  "This  man,"  said  he, 
"I  thought  had  been  a  lord  among  wits,  but  I  find  he  is  only 


638  JAMES  BOSWELL 

a  wit  among  lords!"  And  when  his  Letters  to  his  natural  son 
were  published,  he  observed  that  "they  teach  the  morals  of  a 
whore,  and  the  manners  of  a  dancing-master." 

[THE  DICTIONARY] 

The  Dictionary,  with  a  Grammar  and  History  of  the  English 
Language,  being  now  at  length  published,  in  two  volumes  folio, 
the  world  contemplated  with  wonder  so  stupendous  a  work 
achieved  by  one  man,  while  other  countries  had  thought  such 
undertakings  fit  only  for  whole  academies.  Vast  as  his  powers 
were,  I  cannot  but  think  that  his  imagination  deceived  him, 
when  he  supposed  that  by  constant  application  he  might  have 
performed  the  task  in  three  years.  Let  the  Preface  be  atten- 
tively perused,  in  which  is  given,  in  a  clear,  strong,  glowing 
style,  a  comprehensive  yet  particular  view  of  what  he  had  done, 
and  it  will  be  evident  that  the  time  he  employed  upon  it  was 
comparatively  short.  I  am  unwilling  to  swell  my  book  with  long 
quotations  from  what  is  in  everybody's  hands,  and  I  believe 
there  are  few  prose  compositions  in  the  English  language  that 
are  read  with  more  delight,  or  are  more  impressed  upon  the 
memory,  than  that  preliminary  discourse.  .  .  .  The  extensive 
reading  which  was  absolutely  necessary  for  the  accumulation 
of  authorities,  and  which  alone  may  account  for  Johnson's 
retentive  mind  being  enriched  with  a  very  large  and  various 
store  of  knowledge  and  imagery,  must  have  occupied  several 
years.  The  Preface  furnishes  an  eminent  instance  of  a  double 
talent,  of  which  Johnson  was  dully  conscious.  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds heard  him  say,  "There  are  two  things  which  I  am  con- 
fident I  can  do  very  well:  one  is  an  introduction  to  any  literary 
work,  stating  what  it  is  to  contain,  and  how  it  should  be  exe- 
cuted in  the  most  perfect  manner;  the  other  is  a  conclusion, 
showing  from  various  causes  why  the  execution  has  not  been 
equal  to  what  the  author  promised  to  himself  and  to  the  public." 

How  should  puny  scribblers  be  abashed  and  disappointed, 
when  they  find  him  displaying  a  perfect  theory  of  lexicograph- 
ical excellence,  yet  at  the  same  time  candidly  and  modestly 
allowing  that  he  "had  not  satisfied  his  own  expectations." 
Here  was  a  fair  occasion  for  the  exercise  of  Johnson's  modesty, 
when  he  was  called  upon  to  compare  his  own  arduous  perform- 
ance, not  with  those  of  other  individuals  (in  which  case  his 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     639 

inflexible  regard  to  truth  would  have  been  violated  had  he 
affected  diffidence),  but  with  speculative  perfection;  as  he  who 
can  outstrip  all  his  competitors  in  the  race  may  yet  be  sensible 
of  his  deficiency  when  he  runs  against  time.  Well  might  he  say 
that  "the  English  Dictionary  was  written  with  little  assistance 
of  the  learned";  for  he  told  me  that  the  only  aid  which  he  re- 
ceived was  a  paper  containing  twenty  etymologies,  sent  to  him 
by  a  person  then  unknown,  who  he  was  afterwards  informed 
was  Dr.  Pearce,  Bishop  of  Rochester.  The  etymologies,  though 
they  exhibit  learning  and  judgment,  are  not,  I  think,  entitled 
to  the  first  praise  among  the  various  parts  of  this  immense 
work.  The  definitions  have  always  appeared  to  me  such  aston- 
ishing proofs  of  acuteness  of  intellect  and  precision  of  language, 
as  indicate  a  genius  of  the  highest  rank.  This  it  is  which  marks 
the  superior  excellence  of  Johnson's  Dictionary  over  others 
equally  or  even  more  voluminous,  and  must  have  made  it  a 
work  of  much  greater  mental  labor  than  mere  Lexicons,  or 
Word-Books,  as  the  Dutch  call  them.  They  who  will  make  the 
experiment  of  trying  how  they  can  define  a  few  words  of  what- 
ever nature,  will  soon  be  satisfied  of  the  unquestionable  justice 
of  this  observation,  which  I  can  assure  my  readers  is  founded 
upon  much  study,  and  upon  communication  with  more  minds 
than  my  own. 

A  few  of  his  definitions  must  be  admitted  to  be  erroneous. 
Thus  Windward  and  Leeward,  though  directly  of  opposite 
meaning,  are  defined  identically  the  same  way;  as  to  which 
inconsiderable  specks  it  is  enough  to  observe  that  his  Preface 
announced  that  he  was  aware  there  might  be  many  such  in  so 
immense  a  work;  nor  was  he  at  all  disconcerted  when  an  instance 
was  pointed  out  to  him.  A  lady  once  asked  him  how  he  came  to 
define  Pastern  the  knee  of  a  horse ;  instead  of  making  an  elabor- 
ate defense,  as  she  expected,  he  at  once  answered,  "Ignorance, 
Madam,  —  pure  ignorance."  His  definition  of  Network1  has 
been  often  quoted  with  sportive  malignity,  as  obscuring  a  thing 
in  itself  very  plain.  But  to  these  frivolous  censures  no  other 
answer  is  necessary  than  that  which  we  are  furnished  by  his 
own  Preface:  "To  explain,  requires  the  use  of  terms  less  ab- 
struse than  that  which  is  to  be  explained,  and  such  terms  can- 
not always  be  found;  for  as  nothing  can  be  proved  but  by 

1  "  Anything  reticulated  or  decussated,  at  equal  distances,  with  interstices  between  the 
intersections. " 


640  JAMES  BOSWELL 

supposing  something  intuitively  known,  and  evident  without 
proof,  so  nothing  can  be  defined  but  by  the  use  of  words  too 
plain  to  admit  of  definition.  Sometimes  easier  words  are 
changed  into  harder;  as,  burial  into  sepulture  or  interment;  dry 
into  dessicative  ;  dryness  into  siccity  or  aridity  ;fit  into  paroxysm  ; 
for  the  easiest  word,  whatever  it  is,  can  never  be  translated  into 
one  more  easy." 

His  introducing  his  own  opinions,  and  even  prejudices,  under 
general  definitions  of  words,  while  at  the  same  time  the  original 
meaning  of  the  words  is  not  explained,  as  his  Tory,  Whig,  Pen- 
sion, Oats,  Excise,1  and  a  few  more,  cannot  be  fully  defended, 
and  must  be  placed  to  the  account  of  capricious  and  humorous 
indulgence.  Talking  to  me  upon  this  subject  when  we  were  at 
Ashbourne  in  1777,  he  mentioned  a  still  stronger  instance  of  the 
predominance  of  his  private  feelings  in  the  composition  of  this 
work  than  any  now  to  be  found  in  it.  "You  know,  sir,  Lord 
Gower  forsook  the  old  Jacobite  interest.  When  I  came  to  the 
word  renegado,  after  telling  that  it  meant  'one  who  deserts  to 
the  enemy,  a  revolter,'  I  added,  'Sometimes  we  say  a  Cower' 
Thus  it  went  to  the  press ;  but  the  printer  had  more  wit  than  I, 
and  struck  it  out." 

Let  it,  however,  be  remembered  that  this  indulgence  does 
not  display  itself  only  in  sarcasm  against  others,  but  sometimes 
in  playful  allusion  to  the  notions  commonly  entertained  of  his 
own  laborious  task.  Thus:  "Grub-street,  the  name  of  a  street  in 
London,  much  inhabited  by  writers  of  small  histories,  diction- 
aries, and  temporary  poems;  whence  any  mean  production  is 
called  Grub-street."  —  "Lexicographer,  a  writer  of  dictionaries, 
a  harmless  drudge" 

[BOSWELL'S  FIRST  MEETING  WITH  DR.  JOHNSON] 
Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  the  actor,  who  then  kept  a  bookseller's 
shop  in  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden,  told  me  that  Johnson 

1  These  definitions  were:  — 

"  Tory.  One  who  adheres  to  the  ancient  constitution  of  the  state,  and  the  apostolical 
hierarchy  of  the  Church  of  England." 

"Whig.  The  name  of  a  faction." 

"Pension.  An  allowance  made  to  any  one  without  an  equivalent.  In  England  it  is 
generally  understood  to  mean  pay  given  to  a  state  hireling  for  treason  to  his  country." 

"Oats.  A  grain  which  in  England  is  generally  given  to  horses,  but  in  Scotland  supports 
^he  people." 

"Excise.  A  hateful  tax  levied  upon  commodities,  and  adjudged  not  by  the  common 
judges  of  property,  but  wretches  hired  by  those  to  whom  excise  is  paid." 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     641 

was  very  much  his  friend,  and  came  frequently  to  his  house, 
where  he  more  than  once  invited  me  to  meet  him;  but  by  some 
unlucky  accident  or  other  he  was  prevented  from  coming  to 
us.  ... 

At  last,  on  Monday,  the  i6th  of  May,1  when  I  was  sitting  in 
Mr.  Davies's  back  parlor,  after  having  drunk  tea  with  him  and 
Mrs.  Davies,  Johnson  unexpectedly  came  into  the  shop;  and 
Mr.  Davies  having  perceived  him,  through  the  glass  door  in  the 
room  in  which  we  were  sitting,  advancing  toward  us,  he  an- 
nounced his  awful  approach  to  me,  somewhat  in  the  manner 
of  an  actor  in  the  part  of  Horatio,  when  he  addresses  Hamlet  on 
the  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost:  "Look,  my  lord,  it  comes!" 
I  found  that  I  had  a  very  perfect  idea  of  Johnson's  figure,  from 
the  portrait  of  him  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  soon  after 
he  had  published  his  Dictionary,  in  the  attitude  of  sitting  in 
his  easy  chair  in  deep  meditation;  which  was  the  first  picture 
his  friend  did  for  him,  which  Sir  Joshua  very  kindly  presented 
to  me,  and  from  which  an  engraving  has  been  made  for  this 
work.  Mr.  Davies  mentioned  my  name,  and  respectfully  intro- 
duced me  to  him.  I  was  much  agitated,  and,  recollecting  his 
prejudice  against  the  Scotch,  of  which  I  had  heard  much,  I  said 
to  Davies,  "Don't  tell  where  I  come  from."  "From  Scotland," 
cried  Davies,  roguishly.  "Mr.  Johnson,"  said  I,  "I  do  indeed 
come  from  Scotland,  but  I  cannot  help  it."  I  am  willing  to 
flatter  myself  that  I  meant  this  as  light  pleasantry  to  soothe 
and  conciliate  him,  and  not  as  an  humiliating  abasement  at 
the  expense  of  my  country.  But  however  that  might  be,  this 
speech  was  somewhat  unlucky;  for,  with  that  quickness  of  wit 
for  which  he  was  so  remarkable,  he  seized  the  expression,  "come 
from  Scotland,"  which  I  used  in  the  sense  of  being  of  that 
country,  and,  as  if  I  had  said  that  I  had  come  away  from  it,  or 
left  it,  retorted,  "That,  sir,  is  what  a  very  great  many  of  your 
countrymen  cannot  help."  This  stroke  stunned  me  a  good  deal, 
and  when  we  had  sat  down  I  felt  myself  not  a  little  embar- 
rassed, and  apprehensive  of  what  might  come  next.  He  then 
addressed  himself  to  Davies:  "What  do  you  think  of  Garrick? 
He  has  refused  me  an  order  for  the  play  for  Miss  Williams,  be- 
cause he  knows  the  house  will  be  full  and  that  an  order  would 
be  worth  three  shillings."  Eager  to  take  any  opening  to  get 

1  1763- 


642  JAMES  BOSWELL 

into  conversation  with  him,  I  ventured  to  say,  "O,  sir,  I  cannot 
think  Mr.  Garrick  would  grudge  such  a  trifle  to  you."  "Sir," 
said  he,  with  a  stern  look,  "I  have  known  David  Garrick  longer 
than  you  have  done,  and  I  know  no  right  you  have  to  talk  to 
me  on  the  subject."  Perhaps  I  deserved  this  check;  for  it  was 
rather  presumptuous  in  me,  an  entire  stranger,  to  express  any 
doubt  of  the  justice  of  his  animadversion  upon  his  old  acquaint- 
ance and  pupil.  I  now  felt  myself  much  mortified,  and  began 
to  think  that  the  hope  which  I  had  long  indulged  of  obtaining 
his  acquaintance  was  blasted.  And  in  truth,  had  not  my  ardor 
been  uncommonly  strong,  and  my  resolution  uncommonly 
persevering,  so  rough  a  reception  might  have  deterred  me  from 
ever  making  any  further  attempts.  Fortunately,  however,  I 
remained  upon  the  field  not  wholly  discomfited,  and  was  soon 
rewarded  by  hearing  some  of  his  conversation,  of  which  I  pre- 
served the  following  short  minute,  without  marking  the  ques- 
tions and  observations  by  which  it  was  produced. 

" People,"  he  remarked,  "may  be  taken  in  once,  who  imagine 
that  an  author  is  greater  in  private  life  than  other  men.  Uncom- 
mon parts  require  uncommon  opportunities  for  their  exertion. 

"In  barbarous  society,  superiority  of  parts  is  of  real  conse- 
quence. Great  strength  or  great  wisdom  is  of  much  value  to  an 
individual.  But  in  more  polished  times  there  are  people  to  do 
everything  for  money,  and  then  there  are  a  number  of  other 
superiorities,  such  as  those  of  birth,  and  fortune,  and  rank, 
that  dissipate  men's  attention,  and  leave  no  extraordinary 
share  of  respect  for  personal  and  intellectual  superiority.  This 
is  wisely  ordered  by  Providence,  to  preserve  some  equality 
among  mankind."  .  .  . 

I  was  highly  pleased  with  the  extraordinary  vigor  of  his 
conversation,  and  regretted  that  I  was  drawn  away  from  it 
by  an  engagement  at  another  place.  I  had,  for  a  part  of  the 
evening,  been  left  alone  with  him,  and  had  ventured  to  make 
an  observation  now  and  then,  which  he  received  very  civilly; 
so  that  I  was  satisfied  that,  though  there  was  a  roughness  in 
his  manner,  there  was  no  ill-nature  in  his  disposition.  Davies 
followed  me  to  the  door,  and  when  I  complained  to  him  a  little 
of  the  hard  blows  which  the  great  man  had  given  me,  he  kindly 
took  upon  him  to  console  me  by  saying,  "Don't  be  uneasy.  I 
can  see  he  likes  you  very  well." 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    643 

A  few  days  afterwards  I  called  on  Davies,  and  asked  him  if  he 
thought  I  might  take  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  Mr.  Johnson  at 
his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  He  said  I  certainly  might,  and 
that  Mr.  Johnson  would  take  it  as  a  compliment.  So  upon 
Tuesday,  the  24th  of  May,  after  having  been  enlivened  by  the 
witty  sallies  of  Messieurs  Thornton,  Wilkes,  Churchill,  and 
Lloyd,  with  whom  I  had  passed  the  morning,  I  boldly  repaired 
to  Johnson.  His  chambers  were  on  the  first  floor  of  No.  i, 
Inner  Temple  Lane,  and  I  entered  them  with  an  impression 
given  me  by  the  Reverend  Dr.  Blair,  of  Edinburgh,  who  had 
been  introduced  to  him  not  long  before,  and  described  his  having 
"found  the  Giant  in  his  den";  an  expression  which,  when  I 
came  to  be  pretty  well  acquainted  with  Johnson,  I  repeated  to 
him,  and  he  was  diverted  at  this  picturesque  account  of  him- 
self. Dr.  Blair  had  been  presented  to  him  by  Dr.  James  For- 
dyce.  At,  this  time  the  controversy  concerning  the  pieces  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  James  Macpherson,  as  translations  of  Ossian, 
was  at  its  height.  Johnson  had  all  along  denied  their  authen- 
ticity; and,  what  was  still  more  provoking  to  their  admirers, 
maintained  that  they  had  no  merit.  The  subject  having  been 
introduced  by  Dr.  Fordyce,  Dr.  Blair,  relying  on  the  internal 
evidence  of  their  antiquity,  asked  Dr.  Johnson  whether  he 
thought  any  man  of  a  modern  age  could  have  written  such 
poems.  Johnson  replied,  "Yes,  sir,  many  men,  many  women, 
and  many  children."  Johnson,  at  this  time,  did  not  know  that 
Dr.  Blair  had  just  published  a  Dissertation,  not  only  defending 
their  authenticity,  but  seriously  ranking  them  with  the  poems 
of  Homer  and  Virgil;  and  when  he  was  afterwards  informed  of 
this  circumstance,  he  expressed  some  displeasure  at  Dr.  For- 
dyce's  having  suggested  the  topic,  and  said,  "I  am  not  sorry 
that  they  got  thus  much  for  their  pains.  Sir,  it  was  like  leading 
one  to  talk  of  a  book  when  the  author  is  concealed  behind  the 
door." 

He  received  me  very  courteously;  but  it  must  be  confessed 
that  his  apartment,  and  furniture,  and  morning  dress,  were 
sufficiently  uncouth.  His  brown  suit  of  clothes  looked  very 
rusty;  he  had  on  a  little  old,  shriveled,  unpowdered  wig,  which 
was  too  small  for  his  head;  his  shirt-neck  and  knees  of  his 
breeches  were  loose;  his  black  worsted  stockings  ill  drawn  up; 
and  he  had  a  pair  of  unbuckled  shoes  by  way  of  slippers.  But 


644  JAMES   BOSWELL 

all  these  slovenly  particulars  were  forgotten  the  moment  that 
he  began  to  talk.  Some  gentlemen,  whom  I  do  not  recollect, 
were  sitting  with  him,  and  when  they  went  away,  I  also  rose; 
but  he  said  to  me,  "Nay,  don't  go."  "Sir,"  said  I,  "I  am  afraid 
that  I  intrude  upon  you.  It  is  benevolent  to  allow  me  to  sit  and 
hear  you."  He  seemed  pleased  with  this  compliment,  which  I 
sincerely  paid  him,  and  answered,  "Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  any 
man  who  visits  me."  I  have  preserved  the  following  short 
minute  of  what  passed  this  day. 

"Madness  frequently  discovers  itself  merely  by  unnecessary 
deviation  from  the  usual  modes  of  the  world.  My  poor  friend 
Smart  showed  the  disturbance  of  his  mind  by  falling  upon  his 
knees  and  saying  his  prayers  in  the  street,  or  in  any  other  un- 
usual place.  Now  although,  rationally  speaking,  it  is  greater 
madness  not  to  pray  at  all,  than  to  pray  as  Smart  did,  I  am 
afraid  there  are  so  many  who  do  not  pray,  that  their  under- 
standing is  not  called  in  question." 

Concerning  this  unfortunate  poet,  Christopher  Smart,  who 
was  confined  in  a  madhouse,  he  had,  at  another  time,  the  fol- 
lowing conversation  with  Dr.  Burney.  BURNEY:  "How  does 
poor  Smart  do,  sir?  Is  he  likely  to  recover?"  JOHNSON:  "  It 
seems  as  if  his  mind  had  ceased  to  struggle  with  the  disease,  for 
he  grows  fat  upon  it."  BURNEY:  "Perhaps,  sir,  that  may  be 
from  want  of  exercise."  JOHNSON:  "No,  sir;  he  has  partly  as 
much  exercise  as  he  used  to  have,  for  he  digs  in  the  garden. 
Indeed,  before  his  confinement,  he  used  for  exercise  to  walk  to 
the  ale-house;  but  he  was  carried  back  again.  I  did  not  think 
he  ought  to  be  shut  up.  His  infirmities  were  not  noxious  to 
society.  He  insisted  on  people  praying  with  him,  and  I  'd  as  lief 
pray  with  Kit  Smart  as  any  one  else.  Another  charge  was  that 
he  did  not  love  clean  linen,  and  I  have  no  passion  for  it." 

Johnson  continued:  "Mankind  have  a  great  aversion  to  in- 
tellectual labor;  but  even  supposing  knowledge  to  be  easily  at- 
tainable, more  people  would  be  content  to  be  ignorant  than 
would  take  even  a  little  trouble  to  acquire  it." 

"The  morality  of  an  action  depends  on  the  motive  from 
which  we  act.  If  I  fling  half  a  crown  to  a  beggar  with  intention 
to  break  his  head,  and  he  picks  it  up  and  buys  victuals  with  it, 
the  physical  effect  is  good;  but,  with  respect  to  me,  the  actior* 
is  very  wrong.  So  religious  exercises,  if  not  performed  with  au 


THE  LIFE   OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    645 

intention  to  please  God,  avail  us  nothing.  As  our  Saviour  says 
of  those  who  perform  them  from  other  motives,  '  Verily  they 
have  their  reward.'"  .  .  . 

Talking  of  Garrick,  he  said,  "He  is  the  first  man  in  the  world 
for  sprightly  conversation." 

When  I  rose  a  second  time,  he  again  pressed  me  to  stay, 
which  I  did. 

He  told  me  that  he  generally  went  abroad  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon, and  seldom  came  home  till  two  in  the  morning.  I  took 
the  liberty  to  ask  if  he  did  not  think  it  wrong  to  live  thus,  and 
not  make  more  use  of  his  great  talents.  He  owned  it  was  a  bad 
habit.  On  reviewing,  at  the  distance  of  many  years,  my  jour- 
nal of  this  period,  I  wonder  how,  at  my  first  visit,  I  ventured 
to  talk  to  him  so  freely,  and  that  he  bore  it  with  so  much  in- 
dulgence. 

Before  we  parted,  he  was  so  good  as  to  promise  to  favor  me 
with  his  company  one  evening  at  my  lodgings,  and,  as  I  took 
my  leave,  shook  me  cordially  by  the  hand.  It  is  almost  need- 
less to  add  that  I  felt  no  little  elation  at  having  now  so  happily 
established  an  acquaintance  of  which  I  had  been  so  long  am- 
bitious. 

My  readers  will,  I  trust,  excuse  me  for  being  thus  minutely 
circumstantial,  when  it  is  considered  that  the  acquaintance  of 
Dr.  Johnson  was  to  me  a  most  valuable  acquisition,  and  laid 
the  foundation  of  whatever  instruction  and  entertainment 
they  may  receive  from  my  collections  concerning  the  great 
subject  of  the  work  which  they  are  now  perusing. 

[GOLDSMITH] 

As  Dr.  Oliver  Goldsmith  will  frequently  appear  in  this  nar- 
rative, I  shall  endeavor  to  make  my  readers  in  some  degree  ar  - 
quainted  with  his  singular  character.  He  was  a  native  of  Ire- 
land, and  a  contemporary  with  Mr.  Burke  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  but  did  not  then  give  much  promise  of  future  celebrity. 
He,  however,  observed  to  Mr.  Malone,  that  "though  he  made 
no  great  figure  in  mathematics,  which  was  a  study  in  much  re- 
pute there,  he  could  turn  an  Ode  of  Horace  into  English  better 
than  any  of  them.  He  afterwards  studied  physic  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  upon  the  Continent;  and,  I  have  been  informed,  was 
enabled  to  pursue  his  travels  on  foot,  partly  by  demanding, 


646  JAMES  BOSWELL 

at  Universities,  to  enter  the  lists  as  a  disputant,  by  which, 
according  to  the  custom  of  many  of  them,  he  was  entitled  to  the 
premium  of  a  crown,  when,  luckily  for  him,  his  challenge  was 
not  accepted;  so  that,  as  I  once  observed  to  Johnson,  he  dis- 
puted his  passage  through  Europe.  He  then  came  to  England, 
and  was  employed  successively  in  the  capacities  of  usher  to  an 
academy,  a  corrector  of  the  press,  a  reviewer,  and  a  writer  for 
a  newspaper.  He  had  sagacity  enough  to  cultivate  assiduously 
the  acquaintance  of  Johnson,  and  his  faculties  were  gradually 
enlarged  by  the  contemplation  of  such  a  model.  To  me  and 
many  others  it  appeared  that  he  studiously  copied  the  manner 
of  Johnson,  though  indeed  upon  a  smaller  scale. 

At  this  time  I  think  he  had  published  nothing  with  his  name, 
though  it  was  pretty  generally  known  that  "oneDr.  Goldsmith" 
was  the  author  of  An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe,  and  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  a  series  of 
letters  supposed  to  be  written  from  London  by  a  Chinese.  No 
man  had  the  art  of  displaying  with  more  advantage,  as  a  writer, 
whatever  literary  acquisitions  he  made.  Nihil  quod  tetigit  non 
ornavit.1 

His  mind  resembled  a  fertile  but  thin  soil.  There  was  a  quick, 
but  not  a  strong,  vegetation  of  whatever  chanced  to  be  thrown 
upon  it.  No  deep  root  could  be  struck.  The  oak  of  the  forest 
did  not  grow  there ;  but  the  elegant  shrubbery  and  the  fragrant 
parterre  appeared  in  gay  succession.  It  has  been  generally  cir- 
culated and  believed  that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in  conversation, 
but  in  truth  this  has  been  greatly  exaggerated.  He  had,  no 
doubt,  a  more  than  common  share  of  that  hurry  of  ideas  which 
we  often  find  in  his  countrymen,  and  which  sometimes  pro- 
duces a  laughable  confusion  in  expressing  them.  He  was  very 
much  what  the  French  call  un  etourdi,  and  from  vanity,  and  an 
eager  desire  of  being  conspicuous  wherever  he  was,  he  frequently 
talked  carelessly,  without  knowledge  of  the  subject  or  even  with- 
out thought.  His  person  was  short,  his  countenance  coarse  and 
vulgar,  his  deportment  that  of  a  scholar  awkwardly  affecting 
the  easy  gentleman.  Those  who  were  in  any  way  distinguished 
excited  envy  in  him  to  so  ridiculous  an  excess,  that  the  in- 
stances of  it  are  hardly  credible.  When  accompanying  two 
beautiful  young  ladies,  with  their  mother,  on  a  tour  in  France, 

1  "Whatever  he  touched  he  adorned."   From  Johnson's  epitaph  on  Goldsmith. 


THE  LIFE   OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     647 

he  was  seriously  angry  that  more  attention  was  paid  to  them 
than  to  him;  and  once,  at  the  exhibition  of  the  Fantoccini1  in 
London,  when  those  who  sat  next  him  observed  with  what 
dexterity  a  puppet  was  made  to  toss  a  pike,  he  could  not  bear 
that  it  should  have  such  praise,  and  exclaimed  with  some 
warmth,  "Pshaw!  I  can  do  it  better  myself." 

He,  I  am  afraid,  had  no  settled  system  of  any  sort,  so  that  his 
conduct  must  not  be  strictly  scrutinized;  but  his  affections  were 
social  and  generous,  and  when  he  had  money  he  gave  it  away 
very  liberally.  His  desire  of  imaginary  consequence  predom- 
inated over  his  attention  to  truth.  When  he  began  to  rise  into 
notice,  he  said  he  had  a  brother  who  was  Dean  of  Durham,  a 
fiction  so  easily  detected  that  it  is  wonderful  how  he  should  have 
been  so  inconsiderate  as  to  hazard  it.  He  boasted  to  me  at  this 
time  of  the  power  of  his  pen  in  commanding  money,  which  I 
believe  was  true  in  a  certain  degree,  though  in  the  instance  he 
gave  he  was  by  no  means  correct.  He  told  me  that  he  had  sold 
a  novel  for  four  hundred  pounds.  This  was  his  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field.  But  Johnson  informed  me  that  he  had  made  the  bargain 
for  Goldsmith,  and  the  price  was  sixty  pounds.  "And,  sir," 
said  he,  "a  sufficient  price,  too,  when  it  was  sold;  for  then  the 
fame  of  Goldsmith  had  not  been  elevated,  as  it  afterwards  was, 
by  his  Traveler;  and  the  bookseller  had  such  faint  hopes  of  profit 
by  his  bargain  that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by  him  a  long  time, 
and  did  not  publish  it  till  after  the  Traveler  had  appeared. 
Then,  to  be  sure,  it  was  accidentally  worth  more  money." 

Mrs.  Piozzi  and  Sir  John  Hawkins  have  strangely  misstated 
the  history  of  Goldsmith's  situation  and  Johnson's  frienHly 
interference,  when  this  novel  was  sold.  I  shall  give  it  autLen 
tically  from  Johnson's  own  exact  narration:  "I  received  one 
morning  a  message  from  poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great 
distress,  and,  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging 
that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a 
guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I  accordingly 
went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had 
arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion. 
I  perceived  that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had 
got  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork 
into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to 

1  Puppets. 


648  JAMES  BOSWELL 

him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He  then 
told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  pro- 
duced to  me.  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  its  merit;  told  the  land- 
lady I  should  return,  and,  having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it 
for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  dis- 
charged his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high  tone 
for  having  used  him  so  ill/' 

[DR.   JOHNSON  AND   GEORGE   III] 

In  February,  1767,  there  happened  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able incidents  of  Johnson's  life,  which  gratified  his  monarchical 
enthusiasm,  and  which  he  loved  to  relate,  with  all  its  circum- 
stances, when  requested  by  his  friends.  This  was  his  being  hon~ 
ored  by  a  private  conversation  with  his  Majesty,  in  the  library 
at  the  Queen's  house.  He  had  frequently  visited  those  splendid 
rooms  and  noble  collection  of  books,  which  he  used  to  say  was 
more  numerous  and  curious  than  he  supposed  any  person  could 
have  made  in  the  time  which  the  king  had  employed.  Mr.  Bar- 
nard, the  librarian,  took  care  that  he  should  have  every  accom- 
modation that  could  contribute  to  his  ease  and  convenience, 
while  indulging  his  literary  taste  in  that  place,  so  that  he  had 
here  a  very  agreeable  resource  at  leisure  hours. 

His  Majesty,  having  been  informed  of  his  occasional  visits, 
was  pleased  to  signify  a  desire  that  he  should  be  told  when  Dr. 
Johnson  next  came  to  the  library.  Accordingly,  the  next  time 
that  Johnson  did  come,  as  soon  as  he  was  fairly  engaged  with  a 
book,  on  which,  while  he  sat  by  the  fire,  he  seemed  quite  intent. 
Mr.  Barnard  stole  round  to  the  apartment  where  the  king  was. 
and,  in  obedience  to  his  Majesty's  commands,  mentioned  that 
Dr.  Johnson  was  then  in  the  library.  His  Majesty  said  he  was 
at  leisure,  and  would  go  to  him;  upon  which  Mr.  Barnard  took 
one  of  the  candles  that  stood  on  the  king's  table,  and  lighted 
his  Majesty  through  a  suite  of  rooms,  till  they  came  to  a  private 
door  into  the  library,  of  which  his  Majesty  had  the  key.  Being 
entered,  Mr.  Barnard  stepped  forward  hastily  to  Dr.  Johnson, 
who  was  still  in  a  profound  study,  and  whispered  him,  "Sir, 
here  is  the  King."  Johnson  started  up,  and  stood  still.  His 
Majesty  approached  him,  and  at  once  was  courteously  easy. 

His  Majesty  began  by  observing  that  he  understood  he 
came  sometimes  to  the  library,  and  then,  mentioning  his  having 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     649 

heard  that  the  Doctor  had  been  lately  at  Oxford,  asked  him  if  he 
was  not  fond  of  going  thither.  To  which  Johnson  answered  that 
he  was  indeed  fond  of  going  to  Oxford  sometimes,  but  was  like- 
wise glad  to  come  back  again.  The  king  then  asked  him  what 
they  were  doing  at  Oxford.  Johnson  answered,  he  could  not  much 
commend  their  diligence,  but  that  in  some  respects  they  were 
mended,  for  they  had  put  their  press  under  better  regulations, 
and  were  at  that  time  printing  Polybius.  He  was  then  asked 
whether  there  were  better  libraries  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  He 
answered,  he  believed  the  Bodleian  was  larger  than  any  they 
had  at  Cambridge,  at  the  same  time  adding,  "I  hope,  whether 
we  have  more  books  or  not  than  they  have  at  Cambridge, 
we  shall  make  as  good  use  of  them  as  they  do."  Being  asked 
whether  All  Souls  or  Christ  Church  library  was  the  largest, 
he  answered,  "All  Souls  library  is  the  largest  we  have,  except 
the  Bodleian."  "Ay,"  said  the  king, "  that  is  the  public  library." 

His  Majesty  inquired  if  he  was  then  writing  anything.  He 
answered  he  was  not,  for  he  had  pretty  well  told  the  world  what 
he  knew,  and  must  now  read  to  acquire  more  knowledge.  The 
king,  as  it  should  seem  with  a  view  to  urge  him  to  rely  on  his 
own  stores  as  an  original  writer,  and  to  continue  his  labors, 
then  said,  "I  do  not  think  you  borrow  much  from  anybody." 
Johnson  said  he  thought  he  had  already  done  his  part  as  a 
writer.  "I  should  have  thought  so  too,"  said  the  king,  "if  you 
had  not  written  so  well."  Johnson  observed  to  me,  upon  this, 
that  "no  man  could  have  paid  a  handsomer  compliment,  and 
it  was  fit  for  a  king  to  pay.  It  was  decisive."  When  asked  by 
another  friend,  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's,  whether  he  made 
any  reply  to  this  high  compliment,  he  answered,  "No,  sir. 
When  the  king  had  said  it,  it  was  to  be  so.  It  was  not  for  me 
to  bandy  civilities  with  my  sovereign."  Perhaps  no  man  who 
had  spent  his  whole  life  in  courts  could  have  shown  a  more  nice 
and  dignified  sense  of  true  politeness  than  Johnson  did  in  this 
instance.  .  .  . 

The  king  then  talked  of  literary  journals,  mentioned  particu- 
larly the  Journal  des  Savans,  and  asked  Johnson  if  it  was  well 
done.  Johnson  said  it  was  formerly  very  well  done,  and  gave 
some  account  of  the  persons  who  began  it  and  carried  it  on  for 
some  years,  enlarging,  at  the  same  time,  on  the  nature  and  use 
of  such  works.  The  king  asked  him  if  it  was  well  done  now. 


650  JAMES  BOSWELL 

Johnson  answered  he  had  no  reason  to  think  that  it  was.  The 
king  then  asked  him  if  there  were  any  other  literary  journals 
published  in  this  kingdom,  except  the  Monthly  and  Critical  Re- 
views; and  on  being  answered  there  was  no  other,  his  Majesty 
asked  which  of  them  was  the  best.  Johnson  answered  that  the 
Monthly  Review  was  done  with  most  care,  the  Critical  upon  the 
best  principles ;  adding  that  the  authors  of  the  Monthly  Review 
were  enemies  to  the  Church.  This  the  king  said  he  was  sorry 
to  hear. 

The  conversation  next  turned  on  the  Philosophical  Transac- 
tions, when  Johnson  observed  that  they  had  now  a  better 
method  of  arranging  their  materials  than  formerly.  "Ay,"  said 
the  king,  "they  are  obliged  to  Dr.  Johnson  for  that";  for  his 
Majesty  had  heard  and  remembered  the  circumstance,  which 
Johnson  himself  had  forgot. 

His  Majesty  expressed  a  desire  to  have  the  literary  biography 
of  this  country  ably  executed,  and  proposed  to  Dr.  Johnson  to 
undertake  it.  Johnson  signified  his  readiness  to  comply  with  his 
Majesty's  wishes. 

During  the  whole  of  this  interview,  Johnson  talked  to  his 
Majesty  with  profound  respect,  but  still  in  his  firm,  manly 
manner,  with  a  sonorous  voice,  and  never  in  that  subdued  tone 
which  is  commonly  used  at  the  levee  and  in  the  drawing-room. 
After  the  king  withdrew,  Johnson  showed  himself  highly  pleased 
with  his  Majesty's  conversation  and  gracious  behavior.  He 
said  to  Mr.  Barnard,  "Sir,  they  may  talk  of  the  king  as  they 
will;  but  he  is  the  finest  gentleman  I  have  ever  seen."  And  he 
afterwards  observed  to  Mr.  Langton,  "Sir,  his  manners  are 
those  of  as  fine  a  gentleman  as  we  may  suppose  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth or  Charles  the  Second." 

[THE  CLUB] 

On  Friday,  April  3O,1 1  dined  with  him  at  Mr.  Beauclerk's, 
where  were  Lord  Charlemont,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and  some 
more  members  of  the  Literary  Club,  whom  he  had  obligingly 
invited  to  meet  me,  as  I  was  this  evening  to  be  balloted  for  as 
candidate  for  admission  into  that  distinguished  society.  John- 
son had  done  me  the  honor  to  propose  me,  and  Beauclerk  was 
very  zealous  for  me. 

1  1773- 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    651 

Goldsmith  being  mentioned,  JOHNSON:  "It  is  amazing  how 
little  Goldsmith  knows.  He  seldom  comes  where  he  is  not  more 
ignorant  than  any  one  else."  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS:  "Yet 
there  is  no  man  whose  company  is  more  liked."  JOHNSON:  "To 
be  sure,  sir.  When  people  find  a  man  of  the  most  distinguished 
abilities  as  a  writer,  their  inferior  while  he  is  with  them,  it  must 
be  highly  gratifying  to  them.  What  Goldsmith  comically  says 
of  himself  is  very  true,  —  he  always  gets  the  better  when  he  ar- 
gues alone;  meaning,  that  he  is  master  of  a  subject  in  his  study, 
and  can  write  well  upon  it;  but  when  he  comes  into  company, 
grows  confused  and  unable  to  talk.  Take  him  as  a  poet,  his 
Traveler  is  a  very  fine  performance ;  ay,  and  so  is  his  Deserted 
Village,  were  it  not  sometimes  too  much  the  echo  of  his  Traveler. 
Whether,  indeed,  we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer, 
or  as  an  historian,  he  stands  in  the  first  class."  BOSWELL:  "An 
historian !  My  dear  sir,  you  surely  will  not  rank  his  compilation 
of  the  Roman  History  with  the  works  of  other  historians  of  this 
age?"  JOHNSON:  "Why,  who  are  before  him?"  BOSWELL: 
"Hume,  —  Robertson,  —  Lord  Lyttleton."  JOHNSON  (his  an- 
tipathy to  the  Scotch  beginning  to  rise):  "I  have  not  read 
Hume;  but  doubtless  Goldsmith's  History  is  better  than  the 
verbiage  of  Robertson  or  the  foppery  of  Dalrymple.  .  .  .  Sir, 
he  has  the  art  of  compiling,  and  of  saying  everything  he  has 
to  say  in  a  pleasing  manner.  He  is  now  writing  a  Natural  His- 
tory, and  will  make  it  as  entertaining  as  a  Persian  Tale."  .  .  . 

The  gentlemen  went  away  to  their  club,  and  I  was  left  at 
Beaucierk's  till  the  fate  of  my  election  should  be  announced  to 
me.  I  sat  in  a  state  of  anxiety  which  even  the  charming  con- 
versation of  Lady  Di  Beauclerk  could  not  entirely  dissipate. 
In  a  short  time  I  received  the  agreeable  intelligence  that  I  was 
chosen.  I  hastened  to  the  place  of  meeting,  and  was  introduced 
to  such  a  society  as  can  seldom  be  found:  Mr.  Edmund  Burke, 
whom  I  then  saw  for  the  first  time,  and  whose  splendid  talents 
had  long  made  me  ardently  wish  for  his  acquaintance;  Dr. 
Nugent,  Mr.  Garrick,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir 
William)  Jones,  and  the  company  with  whom  I  had  dined. 
Upon  my  entrance,  Johnson  placed  himself  behind  a  chair,  on 
which  he  leaned  as  on  a  desk  or  pulpit,  and  with  humorous 
formality  gave  me  a  charge,  pointing  out  the  conduct  expected 
from  me  as  a  good  member  of  this  club. 


652  JAMES  BOSWELL 

.  .  .  During  this  argument,  Goldsmith  sat  in  restless  agita- 
tion, from  a  wish  to  get  in  and  shine.  Finding  himself  excluded, 
he  had  taken  his  hat  to  go  away,  but  remained  for  some  time 
with  it  in  his  hand,  like  a  gamester  who,  at  the  close  of  a  long 
night,  lingers  for  a  little  while,  to  see  if  he  can  have  a  favorable 
opening  to  finish  with  success.  Once  when  he  was  beginning  to 
speak,  he  found  himself  overpowered  by  the  loud  voice  of  John- 
son, who  was  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table,  and  did  not  per- 
ceive Goldsmith's  attempt.  Thus  disappointed  of  his  wish  to 
obtain  the  attention  of  the  company,  Goldsmith  in  a  passion 
threw  down  his  hat,  looking  angrily  at  Johnson,  and  exclaimed 
in  a  bitter  tone,  "  Take  it"  When  Toplady  was  going  to  speak, 
Johnson  uttered  some  sound  which  led  Goldsmith  to  think 
he  was  beginning  again  and  taking  the  words  from  Toplady. 
Upon  which,  he  seized  this  opportunity  of  venting  his  own  envy 
and  spleen,  under  the  pretext  of  supporting  another  person. 
"Sir,"  said  he  to  Johnson,  "the  gentleman  has  heard  you  pa- 
tiently for  an  hour;  pray  allow  us  now  to  hear  him."  JOHNSON 
(sternly) :  "  Sir,  I  was  not  interrupting  the  gentleman.  I  was 
only  giving  him  a  signal  of  my  intention.  Sir,  you  are  impertin- 
ent." Goldsmith  made  no  reply,  but  continued  in  the  com- 
pany for  some  time.  .  .  . 

[Johnson]  and  Mr.  Langton  and  I  went  together  to  the  Club, 
where  we  found  Mr.  Burke,  Mr.  Garrick,  and  some  other  mem- 
bers, and  amongst  them  our  friend  Goldsmith,  who  sat  silently 
brooding  over  Johnson's  reprimand  to  him  after  dinner.  John- 
son perceived  this,  and  said  aside  to  some  of  us,  "  I  '11  make  Gold- 
smith forgive  me";  and  then  called  to  him  in  a  loud  voice,  "Dr. 
Goldsmith,  something  passed  to-day  where  you  and  I  dined; 
I  ask  your  pardon."  Goldsmith  answered  placidly,  "  It  must  be 
much  from  you,  sir,  that  I  take  ill."  And  so  at  once  the  differ- 
ence was  over,  and  they  were  on  as  easy  terms  as  ever,  and 
Goldsmith  rattled  away  as  usual. 

[DR.  JOHNSON  AND  MACPHERSON] 

Mr.  Boswell  to  Dr.  Johnson 

EDINBURGH,  Feb.  2,  1775. 

As  to  Macpherson,  I  am  anxious  to  have  from  yourself  a  full  and  pointed 
account  of  what  has  passed  between  you  and  him.  It  is  confidently  told 
here  that,  before  your  book  came  out,  he  sent  to  you  to  let  you  know  that 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    653 

he  understood  you  meant  to  deny  the  authenticity  of  Ossian's  poems;  that 
the  originals  were  in  his  possession;  that  you  might  have  inspection  of 
them,  and  might  take  the  evidence  of  people  skilled  in  the  Erse  language; 
and  that  he  hoped,  after  this  fair  offer,  you  would  not  be  so  uncandid  as 
to  assert  that  he  had  refused  reasonable  proof.  That  you  paid  no  regard 
to  his  message,  but  published  your  strong  aitack  upon  him;  and  then  he 
wrote  a  letter  to  you,  in  such  terms  as  he  thought  suited  to  one  who  had 
not  acted  as  a  man  of  veracity.  You  may  believe  it  gives  me  pain  to  hear 
your  conduct  represented  as  unfavorable,  while  I  can  only  deny  what  is 
said  on  the  ground  that  your  character  refutes  it,  without  having  any  in- 
formation to  oppose.  Let  me,  I  beg  it  of  you,  be  furnished  with  a  sufficient 
answer  to  any  calumny  upon  this  occasion.  .  .  . 

To  James  Boswell,  Esq. 

My  DEAR  BOSWELL:  I  am  surprised  that,  knowing  as  you  do  the  dispo- 
sition of  your  countrymen  to  tell  lies  in  favor  of  each  other,  you  can  beat 
all  affected  by  any  reports  that  circulate  among  them.  Macpherson  never 
in  his  life  offered  me  a  sight  of  any  original  or  of  any  evidence  of  any  kind, 
but  thought  only  of  intimidating  me  by  noise  and  threats,  till  my  last 
answer  —  that  I  would  not  be  deterred  from  detecting  what  I  thought  a 
cheat,  by  the  menaces  of  a  ruffian  —  put  an  end  to  our  correspondence. 

The  state  of  the  question  is  this.  He  and  Dr.  Blair,  whom  I  consider  as 
deceived,  say  that  he  copied  the  poem  from  old  manuscripts.  His  copies, 
if  he  had  them,  and  I  believe  him  to  have  none,  are  nothing.  Where  are 
the  manuscripts?  They  can  be  shown  if  they  exist,  but  they  were  never 
shown.  De  non  existentibus  et  non  apparentibus,  says  our  law,  eadem  est 
ratio.1  No  man  has  a  claim  to  credit  upon  his  own  word,  when  better  evi- 
dence, if  he  had  it,  may  be  easily  produced.  But  so  far  as  we  can  find,  the 
Erse  language  was  never  written  till  very  lafely  for  the  purposes  of  religion. 
A  nation  that  cannot  write,  or  a  language  that  was  never  written,  has  no 
manuscripts. 

But  whatever  he  has  he  never  offered  to  show.  If  old  manuscripts 
should  now  be  mentioned,  I  should,  unless  there  were  more  evidence  than 
can  be  easily  had,  suppose  them  another  proof  of  Scotch  conspiracy  in 
national  falsehood. 

Do  not  censure  the  expression;  you  know  it  to  be  true.  .  .  . 

I  am  now  engaged,  but  in  a  little  time  I  hope  to  do  all  you  would  have. 
My  compliments  to  Madam  and  Veronica. 

I  am,  sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

SAM.  JOHNSON. 

February  7,  1775. 

What  words  were  used  by  Mr.  Macpherson  in  his  letter  to 
the  venerable  sage,  I  have  never  heard ;  but  they  are  generally 
said  to  have  been  of  a  nature  very  different  from  the  language 

1  "The  same  account  is  to  be  taken  of  things  which  do  not  appear  as  of  those  which  do 
not  exist." 


654  JAMES  BOSWELL 

of  literary  contest.  Dr.  Johnson's  answer  appeared  in  the  news- 
papers of  the  day,  and  has  since  been  frequently  republished,  but 
not  with  perfect  accuracy.  I  give  it  as  dictated  to  me  by  him- 
self, written  down  in  his  presence,  and  authenticated  by  a  note 
in  his  own  handwriting,  "This,  I  think,  is  a  true  copy." 

MR.  JAMES  MACPHERSON, 

I  received  your  foolish  and  impudent  letter.  Any  violence  offered  me 
I  shall  do  my  best  to  repel;  and  what  I  cannot  do  for  myself,  the  law  shall 
do  for  me.  I  hope  I  shall  never  be  deterred  from  detecting  what  I  think 
a  cheat,  by  the  menaces  of  a  ruffian. 

What  would  you  have  me  retract?  I  thought  your  book  an  imposture; 
I  think  it  an  imposture  still.  For  this  opinion  I  have  given  my  reasons  to 
the  public,  which  I  here  dare  you  to  refute.  Your  rage  I  defy.  Your  abil- 
ities, since  your  Homer,  are  not  so  formidable,  and  what  I  hear  of  your 
morals  inclines  me  to  pay  regard  not  to  what  you  shall  say,  but  to  what 
you  shall  prove.  You  may  print  this  if  you  will. 

SAM.  JOHNSON. 

Mr.  Macpherson  little  knew  the  character  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
if  he  supposed  that  he  could  be  easily  intimidated;  for  no  man 
was  ever  more  remarkable  for  personal  courage.  He  had,  in- 
deed, an  awful  dread  of  death,  or  rather  "of  something  after 
death  " ;  and  what  rational  man,  who  seriously  thinks  of  quitting 
all  that  he  has  ever  known,  and  going  into  a  new  and  unknown 
state  of  being,  can  be  without  that  dread?  But  his  fear  was  from 
reflection;  his  courage  natural.  His  fear,  in  that  one  instance, 
was  the  result  of  philosophical  and  religious  consideration.  He 
feared  death,  but  he  feared  nothing  else,  not  even  what  might 
occasion  death.  .  .  .  Foote,  who  so  successfully  revived  the  old 
comedy  by  exhibiting  living  characters,  had  resolved  to  imitate 
Johnson  on  the  stage,  expecting  great  profits  from  the  ridicule 
of  so  celebrated  a  man.  Johnson  being  informed  of  his  inten- 
tion, and  being  at  dinner  at  Mr.  Thomas  Davies's,  the  book- 
seller, from  whom  I  had  the  story,  he  asked  Mr.  Davies  what 
was  the  common  price  of  an  oak  stick ;  and  being  answered  six- 
pence, "Why  then,  sir,"  said  he,  "give  me  leave  to  send  your 
servant  to  purchase  me  a  shilling  one.  I  '11  have  a  double  quan- 
tity; for  lam  told  Foote  means  to  take  me  off,  as  he  calls  it, 
and  I  am  determined  the  fellow  shall  not  do  it  with  impunity." 
Davies  took  care  to  acquaint  Foote  of  this,  which  effectually 
checked  the  wantonness  of  the  mimic.  Mr.  Macpherson's  men- 
aces made  Johnson  provide  himself  with  the  same  implement  of 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    655 

defense ;  and  had  he  been  attacked,  I  have  no  doubt  that,  old 
as  he  was,  he  would  have  made  his  corporal  prowess  be  felt  as 
much  as  his  intellectual. 

[THE  DINNER  AT  THE  MESSRS.  BILLY'S] 

My  desire  of  being  acquainted  with  celebrated  men  of  every 
description  had  made  me,  much  about  the  same  time,  obtain  an 
introduction  to  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  and  to  John  Wilkes,  Esq. 
Two  men  more  different  could  perhaps  not  be  selected  out  of 
mankind.  They  had  even  attacked  one  another  with  some  as- 
perity in  their  writings;  yet  I  lived  in  habits  of  friendship  with 
both.  I  could  fully  relish  the  excellence  of  each,  for  I  have  ever 
delighted  in  that  intellectual  chemistry  which  can  separate  good 
qualities  from  evil  in  the  same  person.  ...  I  conceived  an  irre- 
sistible wish,  if  possible,  to  bring  Dr.  Johnson  and  Mr.  Wilkes 
together.  How  to  manage  it  was  a  nice  and  difficult  matter. 

My  worthy  booksellers  and  friends,  Messieurs  Dilly  in  the 
Poultry,  at  whose  hospitable  and  well-covered  table  I  have  seen 
a  greater  number  of  literary  men  than  at  any  other,  except  that 
of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  had  invited  me  to  meet  Mr.  Wilkes  and 
some  other  gentlemen,  on  Wednesday,  May  I5.1  "Pray,"  said 
I,  "let  us  have  Dr.  Johnson."  "What,  with  Mr.  Wilkes?  Not 
for  the  world,"  said  Mr.  Edward  Dilly;  "Dr.  Johnson  would 
never  forgive  me."  "  Come,"  said  I,  "if  you '11  let  me  negotiate 
for  you,  I  will  be  answerable  that  all  shall  go  well."  DILLY: 
"Nay,  if  you  will  take  it  upon  you,  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  very 
happy  to  see  them  both  here." 

Notwithstanding  the  high  veneration  which  I  entertained  for 
Dr.  Johnson,  I  was  sensible  that  he  was  sometimes  a  little  actu- 
ated by  the  spirit  of  contradiction,  and  by  means  of  that  I  hoped 
I  should  gain  my  point.  I  was  persuaded  that  if  I  had  come  upon 
him  with  a  direct  proposal,  "  Sir,  will  you  dine  in  company  with 
Jack  Wilkes?"  he  would  have  flown  into  a  passion,  and  would 
probably  have  answered,  "Dine  with  Jack  Wilkes?  Sir,  I'd  as 
soon  dine  with  Jack  Ketch."  I  therefore,  while  we  were  sitting 
quietly  by  ourselves  at  his  house  in  an  evening,  took  occasion  to 
open  my  plan  thus:  "  Mr.  Dilly,  sir,  sends  his  respectful  compli- 
ments to  you,  and  would  be  happy  if  you  would  do  him  the  honor 
to  dine  with  him  on  Wednesday  next  along  with  me,  as  I  must 

1    1776. 


656  JAMES  BOSWELL 

soon  go  to  Scotland."  JOHNSON  :  "  Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  Mr.  Dilly. 
I  will  wait  upon  him."  BOSWELL:  "Provided,  sir,  I  suppose, 
that  the  company  which  he  is  to  have  is  agreeable  to  you?" 
JOHNSON:  "What  do  you  mean,  sir?  What  do  you  take  me  for? 
Do  you  think  I  am  so  ignorant  of  the  world  as  to  imagine  that 
I  am  to  prescribe  to  a  gentleman  what  company  he  is  to  have 
at  his  table?"  BOSWELL:  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  wishing 
to  prevent  you  from  meeting  people  whom  you  might  not  like. 
Perhaps  he  may  have  some  of  what  he  calls  his  patriotic  friends 
with  him."  JOHNSON:  "Well,  sir,  and  what  then?  What  care  / 
for  his  'patriotic  friends'?  Poh!"  BOSWELL:  "I  should  not  be 
surprised  to  find  Jack  Wilkes  there."  JOHNSON:  "And  if  Jack 
Wilkes  should  be  there,  what  is  that  to  me,  sir?  My  dear  friend, 
let  us  have  no  more  of  this.  I  am  sorry  to  be  angry  with  you, 
but  really  it  is  treating  me  strangely  to  talk  to  me  as  if  I  could 
not  meet  any  company  whatever,  occasionally."  BOSWELL: 
"Pray  forgive  me,  sir,  I  meant  well.  But  you  shall  meet  who- 
ever comes,  for  me."  Thus  I  secured  him,  and  told  Dilly  that  he 
would  find  him  very  well  pleased  to  be  one  of  his  guests  on  the 
day  appointed. 

Upon  the  much  expected  Wednesday,  I  called  on  him  about 
half  an  hour  before  dinner,  as  I  often  did  when  we  were  to  dine 
out  together,  to  see  that  he  was  ready  in  time,  and  to  accompany 
him.  .  .  . 

When  we  entered  Mr.  Billy's  drawing-room,  he  found  himself 
in  the  midst  of  a  company  he  did  not  know.  I  kept  myself  snug 
and  silent,  watching  how  he  would  conduct  himself.  I  observed 
him  whispering  to  Mr.  Dilly,  "Who  is  that  gentleman,  sir?" 
"Mr.  Arthur  Lee."  JOHNSON:  "Too,  too,  too"  (under  his 
breath),  which  was  one  of  his  habitual  mutterings.  Mr.  Arthur 
Lee  could  not  but  be  very  obnoxious  to  Johnson,  for  he  was  not 
only  a  "patriot "  but  an  American.  He  was  afterwards  minister 
from  the  United  States  at  the  court  of  Madrid.  "And  who  is  the 
gentleman  in  lace? "  "Mr.  Wilkes,  sir."  This  information  con- 
founded him  still  more;  he  had  some  difficulty  to  restrain  him- 
self, and,  taking  up  a  book,  sat  down  upon  a  window-seat  and 
read,  or  at  least  kept  his  eye  intently  upon  it  for  some  time,  till 
he  composed  himself.  His  feelings,  I  dare  say,  were  awkward 
enough.  But  he  no  doubt  recollected  having  rated  me  for  sup- 
posing that  he  could  be  at  all  disconcerted  by  any  company,  and 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    657 

he  therefore  resolutely  set  himself  to  behave  quite  as  an  easy 
man  of  the  world,  who  could  adapt  himself  at  once  to  the  dis- 
position and  manners  of  those  whom  he  might  chance  to  meet 

The  cheering  sound  of  "  Dinner  is  upon  the  table  "  dissolved 
his  reveries,  and  we  all  sat  down  without  any  symptom  of  ill- 
humor.  There  were  present  —  beside  Mr.  Wilkes,  and  Mr. 
Arthur  Lee,  who  was  an  old  companion  of  mine  when  he  studied 
physic  at  Edinburgh  —  Mr.  (now  Sir  John)  Miller,  Dr.  Lett- 
som,  and  Mr.  Slater  the  druggist.  Mr.  Wilkes  placed  himself 
next  to  Dr.  Johnson,  and  behaved  to  him  with  so  much  atten- 
tion and  politeness  that  he  gained  upon  him  insensibly.  No  man 
eat  more  heartily  than  Johnson,  or  loved  better  what  was  nice 
jid  delicate.  Mr.  Wilkes  was  very  assiduous  in  helping  him  to 
jome  fine  veal.  "Pray  give  me  leave,  sir;  —  It  is  better  here — A 
little  of  the  brown  —  Some  fat,  sir  —  A  little  of  the  stuffing  — 
Some  gravy — Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  some  but- 
ter —  Allow  me  to  recommend  a  squeeze  of  this  orange;  or  the 
lemon,  perhaps,  may  have  more  zest."  "Sir,  sir,  I  am  obliged  to 
you,  sir,"  cried  Johnson,  bowing,  and  turning  his  head  to  him 
with  a  look  for  some  time  of  "surly  virtue,"1  but  in  a  short 
while  of  complacency.  .  .  . 

I  attended  Dr.  Johnson  home,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to 
hear  him  tell  Mrs.  Williams  how  much  he  had  been  pleased  with 
Mr.  Wilkes's  company,  and  what  an  agreeable  day  he  had 
passed. 

[THE  LIVES  OF  THE  POETS] 

In  1781  Johnson  at  last  completed  his  Lives  of  the  Poets, 
of  which  he  gives  this  account:  "Some  time  in  March  I  finished 
The  Lives  of  the  Poets,  which  I  wrote  in  my  usual  way,  dilator- 
ily and  hastily,  unwilling  to  work,  and  working  with  vigor  and 
haste."  In  a  memorandum  previous  to  this,  he  says  of  them: 
"Written,  I  hope,  in  such  a  manner  as  may  tend  to  the  pro- 
motion of  piety." 

This  is  the  work  which,  of  all  Dr.  Johnson's  writings,  will  per- 
haps be  read  most  generally,  and  with  most  pleasure.  Philo- 
logy and  biography  were  his  favorite  pursuits,  and  those  who 
lived  most  in  intimacy  with  him  heard  him  upon  all  occasions, 
when  there  was  a  proper  opportunity,  take  delight  in  expati- 

1  A  phrase  from  Johnson's  London. 


658  JAMES  BOSWELL 

ating  upon  the  various  merits  of  the  English  poets,  —  upon  the 
niceties  of  their  characters,  and  the  events  of  their  progress 
through  the  world  which  they  contribute  to  illuminate.  His 
mind  was  so  full  of  that  kind  of  information,  and  it  was  so  well 
arranged  in  his  memory,  that  in  performing  what  he  had  under- 
taken in  this  way,  he  had  little  more  to  do  than  to  put  his 
thoughts  upon  paper,  exhibiting  first  each  poet's  life,  and  then 
subjoining  a  critical  examination  of  his  genius  and  works.  But 
when  he  began  to  write,  the  subject  swelled  in  such  a  manner 
that,  instead  of  prefaces  to  each  poet  of  no  more  than  a  few 
pages,  as  he  had  originally  intended,  he  produced  an  ample, 
rich,  and  most  entertaining  view  of  them  in  every  respect.  .  .  . 
The  booksellers,  justly  sensible  of  the  great  additional  value  of 
the  copyright,  presented  him  with  another  hundred  pounds, 
over  and  above  two  hundred,  for  which  his  agreement  was  to 
furnish  such  prefaces  as  he  thought  fit. 

This  was,  however,  but  a  small  recompense  for  such  a  collec- 
tion of  biography,  and  such  principles  and  illustrations  of  crit- 
icism as,  if  digested  and  arranged  by  some  modern  Aristotle  or 
Longinus,  might  form  a  code  upon  that  subject,  such  as  no  other 
nation  can  show.  As  he  was  so  good  as  to  make  me  a  present  of 
the  greatest  part  of  the  original  and  indeed  only  manuscript 
of  this  admirable  work,  I  have  an  opportunity  of  observing 
with  wonder  the  correctness  with  which  he  rapidly  struck  off 
such  glowing  composition.  He  may  be  assimilated  to  the  Lady 
in  Waller,  who  could  impress  with  "Love  at  first  sight":  — 

Some  other  nymphs  with  colors  faint, 
And  pencil  slow,  may  Cupid  paint, 
And  a  weak  heart  in  time  destroy; 
She  has  a  stamp,  and  prints  the  boy. 

.  .  .  While  the  world  in  general  was  filled  with  admiration  of 
Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  there  were  narrow  circles  in  which 
prejudice  and  resentment  were  fostered,  and  from  which  at- 
tacks of  different  sorts  issued  against  him.  By  some  violent 
Whigs  he  was  arraigned  of  injustice  to  Milton ;  by  some  Cam' 
bridge  men  of  depreciating  Gray;  and  his  expressing  with  a  dig- 
nified freedom  what  he  really  thought  of  George  Lord  Lyttel- 
ton,  gave  offense  to  some  of  the  friends  of  that  nobleman,  and 
particularly  produced  a  declaration  of  war  against  him  from 
Mrs.  Montagu,  the  ingenious  essayist  on  Shakespeare,  between 


THE  LIFE   OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.    659 

whom  and  his  lordship  a  commerce  of  reciprocal  compliments 
had  long  been  carried  on.  In  this  war  the  smallest  powers  in  al- 
liance with  him  were  of  course  led  to  engage,  at  least  on  the  de- 
fensive, and  thus  I  for  one  was  excluded  from  the  enjoyment  of 
"A  Feast  for  Reason,"  such  as  Mr.  Cumberland  has  described, 
with  a  keen  yet  just  and  delicate  pen,  in  his  Observer.  These 
minute  inconveniences  gave  not  the  least  disturbance  to  John- 
son. He  nobly  said,  when  I  talked  to  him  of  the  feeble  though 
shrill  outcry  which  had  been  raised,  "  Sir,  I  considered  myself  as 
entrusted  with  a  certain  portion  of  truth.  I  have  given  my  opin- 
ion sincerely;  let  them  show  where  they  think  me  wrong." 

[MISCELLANEA] 

After  his  return  to  London  from  this  excursion,  I  saw  him 
frequently,  but  have  few  memorandums;  I  shall  therefore 
here  insert  some  particulars  which  I  have  collected  at  various 
times.  .  .  . 

It  having  been  mentioned  to  Dr.  Johnson  that  a  gentleman 
who  had  a  son  whom  he  imagined  to  have  an  extreme  degree  of 
timidity,  resolved  to  send  him  to  a  public  school,  that  he  might 
acquire  confidence,  —  "Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "this  is  a  prepos- 
terous expedient  for  removing  his  infirmity;  such  a  disposition 
should  be  cultivated  in  the  shade.  Placing  him  at  a  public 
school  is  forcing  an  owl  upon  day."  .  .  . 

A  dull  country  magistrate  gave  Johnson  a  long  tedious 
account  of  his  exercising  his  criminal  jurisdiction,  the  result  of 
which  was  his  having  sentenced  four  convicts  to  transporta- 
tion. Johnson,  in  an  agony  of  impatience  to  get  rid  of  such  a 
companion,  exclaimed,  "I  heartily  wish,  sir,  that  I  were  a  fifth." 

Johnson  was  present  when  a  tragedy  was  read  in  which  there 
occurred  this  line:  — 

Who  rules  o'er  freemen  should  himself  be  free. 

The  company  having  admired  it  much,  —  "I  cannot  agree  with 
you,"  said  Johnson;  "it  might  as  well  be  said,  — 

Who  drives  fat  oxen  should  himself  be  fat." 

.  .  .  Johnson  having  argued  for  some  time  with  a  pertina- 
cious gentleman,  his  opponent,  who  had  talked  in  a  very  puz- 
zling manner,  happened  to  say,  "I  don't  understand  you,  sir"; 


66o  JAMES  BOSWELL 

upon  which  Johnson  observed,  "Sir,  I  have  found  you  an  argu- 
ment, but  I  am  not  obliged  to  find  you  an  understanding." 

.  .  .  He  disapproved  of  Lord  Hailes  for  having  modern- 
ized the  language  of  the  ever  memorable  John  Hales  of  Eton, 
in  an  edition  which  his  lordship  published  of  that  writer's 
works.  "  An  author's  language,  sir,"  said  he,  "is  a  characteris- 
tical  part  of  his  composition,  and  is  also  characteristical  of  the 
age  in  which  he  writes.  Besides,  sir,  when  the  language  is 
changed  we  are  not  sure  that  the  sense  is  the  same.  No,  sir;  I 
am  sorry  Lord  Hailes  has  done  this." 

Here  it  may  be  observed  that  his  frequent  use  of  the  expres- 
sion No,  sir,  was  not  always  to  intimate  contradiction;  for  he 
would  say  so  when  he  was  about  to  enforce  an  affirmative  pro- 
position which  had  not  been  denied,  as  in  the  instance  last  men- 
tioned. I  used  to  consider  it  as  a  kind  of  flag  of  defiance,  as  if  he 
had  said,  "Any  argument  you  may  offer  against  this  is  not  just. 
No,  sir,  it  is  not."  It  was  like  Falstaff's  "I  deny  your  major." 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  having  said  that  he  took  the  altitude  of 
a  man's  taste  by  his  stories  and  his  wit,  and  of  his  understand- 
ing by  the  remarks  that  he  repeated,  being  always  sure  that  he 
must  be  a  weak  man  who  quotes  common  things  with  an  empha- 
sis as  if  they  were  oracles,  Johnson  agreed  with  him;  and  Sir 
Joshua  having  also  observed  that  the  real  character  of  a  man 
was  found  out  by  his  amusements,  Johnson  added,  "Yes,  sir;  no 
man  is  a  hypocrite  in  his  pleasures." 

I  have  mentioned  Johnson's  general  aversion  to  pun.  He 
once,  however,  endured  one  of  mine.  When  we  were  talking  of 
a  numerous  company  in  which  he  had  distinguished  himself 
highly,  I  said, "  Sir,  you  were  a  cod  surrounded  by  smelts.  Is  not 
this  enough  for  you?  at  a  time  too  when  you  were  not  fishing  for 
a  compliment?"  He  laughed  at  this  with  a  complacent  appro- 
bation. Old  Mr.  Sheridan  observed,  upon  my  mentioning  it  to 
him,  "He  liked  your  compliment  so  well,  he  was  willing  to  take 
it  with  pun  sauce"  For  my  own  part,  I  think  no  innocent  spe- 
cies of  wit  or  pleasantry  should  be  suppressed,  and  that  a  good 
pun  may  be  admitted  among  the  smaller  excellencies  of  lively 
conversation.  .  .  . 

When  I  pointed  out  to  him  in  the  newspaper  one  of  Mr.  Grat- 
tan's  animated  and  glowing  speeches,  in  favor  of  the  freedom  of 
Ireland,  in  which  this  expression  occurred  (I  know  not  if  accu- 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     661 

rately  taken) :  "We  will  persevere  till  there  is  not  one  link  of  the 
English  chain  left  to  clank  upon  the  rags  of  the  meanest  beggar 
in  Ireland,"  —"Nay,  sir,"  said  Johnson,  "don't you  perceive 
that  one  link  cannot  clank?".  .  . 

It  may  be  worth  remarking,  among  the  minutiae  of  my  collec- 
tion, that  Johnson  was  once  drawn  to  serve  in  the  militia,  the 
Trained  Bands  of  the  city  of  London,  and  that  Mr.  Rackstrow, 
of  the  Museum  in  Fleet  Street,  was  his  colonel.  It  may  be 
believed  he  did  not  serve  in  person;  but  the  idea,  with  all  its 
circumstances,  is  certainly  laughable.  He  upon  that  occasion 
provided  himself  with  a  musket,  and  with  a  sword  and  belt, 
which  I  have  seen  hanging  in  his  closet. 

He  was  very  constant  to  those  whom  he  once  employed,  if 
they  gave  him  no  reason  to  be  displeased.  When  somebody 
talked  of  being  imposed  on  in  the  purchase  of  tea  and  sugar,  and 
such  articles,  "That  will  not  be  the  case,"  said  he,  "if  you  go  to 
a  stately  shop,  as  I  always  do.  In  such  a  shop  it  is  not  worth 
their  while  to  take  a  petty  advantage." 

An  author  of  most  anxious  and  restless  vanity  being  men- 
tioned, "Sir,"  said  he,  "there  is  not  a  young  sapling  upon  Par- 
nassus more  severely  blown  about  by  every  wind  of  criticism 
than  that  poor  fellow." 

The  difference,  he  observed,  between  a  well-bred  and  an  ill- 
bred  man  is  this:  "One  immediately  attracts  your  liking,  the 
other  your  aversion.  You  love  the  one  till  you  find  reason  to 
hate  him;  you  hate  the  other  till  you  find  reason  to  love 
him." 

The  wife  of  one  of  his  acquaintance  had  fraudulently  made  a 
purse  for  herself  out  of  her  husband's  fortune.  Feeling  a  proper 
compunction  in  her  last  moments,  she  confessed  how  much  she 
had  secreted;  but  before  she  could  tell  where  it  was  placed,  she 
was  seized  with  a  convulsive  fit  and  expired.  Her  husband  said 
he  was  more  hurt  by  her  want  of  confidence  in  him  than  by  the 
loss  of  his  money.  "  I  told  him,"  said  Johnson,  "  that  he  should 
console  himself;  for  perhaps  the  money  might  be  found,  and  he 
was  sure  that  his  wife  was  gone." 

A  foppish  physician  once  reminded  Johnson  of  his  having 
been  in  company  with  him  on  a  former  occasion.  "I  do  not  re- 
member it,  sir."  The  physician  still  insisted,  adding  that  he  that 
day  wore  so  fine  a  coat  that  it  must  have  attracted  his  notice. 


662  JAMES  BOSWELL 

"  Sir,"  said  Johnson, "  had  you  been  dipped  in  Pactolus,  I  should 
not  have  noticed  you." 

He  seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  speaking  in  his  own  style;  for 
when  he  had  carelessly  missed  it,  he  would  repeat  the  thought 
translated  into  it.  Talking  of  the  comedy  of  The  Rehearsal,  he 
said,  "  It  has  not  wit  enough  to  keep  it  sweet."  This  was 
easy;  he  therefore  caught  himself,  and  pronounced  a  more 
round  sentence:  " It  has  not  vitality  enough  to  preserve  it  from 
putrefaction." 

He  censured  a  writer  of  entertaining  travels  for  assuming 
A  feigned  character,  saying  (in  his  sense  of  the  word),  "He 
carries  out  one  lie;  we  know  not  how  many  he  brings  back."  At 
another  time,  talking  of  the  same  person,  he  observed,  "Sir, 
your  assent  to  a  man  whom  you  have  never  known  to  falsify, 
is  a  debt;  but  after  you  have  known  a  man  to  falsify,  your 
assent  to  him  then  is  a  favor."  .  .  . 

When  I  observed  to  him  that  painting  was  so  far  inferior  to 
poetry,  that  the  story  or  even  emblem  which  it  communicates 
must  be  previously  known;  and  mentioned,  as  a  laughable  in- 
stance of  this,  that  a  little  miss,  on  seeing  a  picture  of  Justice 
with  the  scales,  had  exclaimed  to  me,  "  See,  there 's  a  woman 
selling  sweetmeats,"  he  said,  "Painting,  sir,  can  illustrate,  but 
cannot  inform." 

No  man  was  more  ready  to  make  an  apology,  when  he  had 
censured  unjustly,  than  Johnson.  When  a  proof-sheet  of  one  of 
his  works  was  brought  to  him,  he  found  fault  with  the  mode  in 
which  a  part  of  it  was  arranged,  refused  to  read  it,  and  in  a  pas- 
sion desired  that  the  compositor  might  be  sent  to  him.  The 
compositor  was  Mr.  Manning,  a  decent,  sensible  man,  who  had 
composed  about  one  half  of  his  Dictionary,  when  in  Mr. 
Strahan's  printing-house,  and  a  great  part  of  his  Lives  of  the 
Poets,  when  in  that  of  Mr.  Nichols,  and  who  (in  his  seventy- 
seventh  year),  when  in  Mr.  Baldwin's  printing-house,  composed 
a  part  of  the  first  edition  of  this  work  concerning  him.  By  pro- 
ducing the  manuscript  he  at  once  satisfied  Dr.  Johnson  that  he 
was  not  to  blame.  Upon  which  Johnson  candidly  and  earnestly 
said  to  him,  "Mr.  Compositor,  I  ask  your  pardon;  Mr.  Com- 
positor, I  ask  your  pardon  again  and  again." 

His  generous  humanity  to  the  miserable  was  almost  beyond 
example.  The  following  instance  is  well  attested.  Coming  home 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LLJ).    663 

late  one  night,  he  found  a  poor  woman  lying  in  the  street  so 
much  exhausted  that  she  could  not  walk.  He  took  her  upon  his 
back,  and  carried  her  to  his  house,  when  he  discovered  that  she 
was  one  of  those  wretched  females  who  had  fallen  into  the  low- 
est state  of  vice,  poverty,  and  disease.  Instead  of  harshly  up- 
braiding her,  he  had  her  taken  care  of  with  all  tenderness  for  a 
long  time,  at  a  considerable  expense,  till  she  was  restored  to 
health,  and  endeavored  to  put  her  into  a  virtuous  way  of  living. 

[CONCLUSION] 

Hie  character  of  Samuel  Johnson  has,  I  trust,  been  so  devel- 
oped in  the  course  of  this  work,  that  they  who  have  honored  it 
with  a  perusal  may  be  considered  as  well  acquainted  with  him. 
As,  however,  it  may  be  expected  that  I  should  collect  into  one 
view  the  capital  and  distinguishing  features  of  this  extraor- 
dinary man,  I  shall  endeavor  to  acquit  myself  of  that  part  of 
my  biographical  undertaking,  however  difficult  it  may  be  to  do 
that  which  many  of  my  readers  will  do  better  for  themselves. 

His  figure  was  large  and  well  formed,  and  his  countenance  of 
the  cast  of  an  ancient  statue;  yet  his  appearance  was  rendered 
strange  and  somewhat  uncouth  by  convulsive  cramps,  by  the 
scars  of  that  distemper  which  it  was  once  imagined  the  royal 
touch  could  cure,  and  by  a  slovenly  mode  of  dress.  He  had  the 
use  only  of  one  eye;  yet  so  much  does  mind  govern  and  even 
supply  the  deficiency  of  organs,  that  his  visual  perceptions,  as 
far  as  they  extended,  were  uncommonly  quick  and  accurate.  So 
morbid  was  his  temperament  that  he  never  knew  the  natural 
joy  of  a  free  and  vigorous  use  of  his  limbs;  when  he  walked,  it 
was  like  the  struggling  gait  of  one  in  fetters;  when  he  rode,  he 
had  no  command  or  direction  of  his  horse,  but  was  carried  as  if 
in  a  balloon.  That  with  his  constitution  and  habits  of  life  he 
should  have  lived  seventy-five  years  is  a  proof  that  an  inherent 
vmda  vis  is  a  powerful  preservative  of  the  human  frame. 

Man  is,  in  general,  made  up  of  contradictory  qualities;  and 
these  will  ever  show  themselves  in  strange  succession  where  a. 
consistency,  in  appearance  at  least,  if  not  reality,  has  not 
been  attained  by  long  habits  of  philosophical  discipline.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  native  vigor  of  the  mind,  the  contradictory  quali- 
ties will  be  the  more  prominent,  and  more  difficult  to  be  adjusted ; 
and  therefore  we  are  not  to  wonder  that  Johnson  exhibited  an 


664  JAMES   BOSWELL 

eminent  example  of  this  remark  which  I  have  made  upon  hum  an 
nature.  At  different  times  he  seemed  a  different  man,  in  some 
respects;  not,  however,  in  any  great  or  essential  article,  upon 
which  he  fully  employed  his  mind,  and  settled  certain  princi- 
ples ot  duty,  but  only  in  his  manners,  and  in  the  display  of  argu- 
ment and  fancy  in  his  talk.  He  was  prone  to  superstition,  but 
not  to  credulity.  Though  his  imagination  might  incline  him  to 
a  belief  of  the  marvelous  and  the  mysterious,  his  vigorous  rea- 
son examined  the  evidence  with  jealousy.  He  was  a  sincere  and 
zealous  Christian,  of  high  Church-of-England  and  monarchical 
principles,  which  he  would  not  tamely  suffer  to  be  questioned ; 
and  had,  perhaps,  at  an  early  period  narrowed  his  mind  too 
much,  both  as  to  religion  and  politics.  His  being  impressed  with 
the  danger  of  extreme  latitude  in  either,  though  he  was  of  a  very 
independent  spirit,  occasioned  his  appearing  somewhat  unfavor- 
able to  the  prevalence  of  that  noble  freedom  of  sentiment  which 
is  the  best  possession  of  man.  Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  he  had 
many  prejudices,  which,  however,  frequently  suggested  many  of 
his  pointed  sayings,  that  rather  show  a  playfulness  of  fancy 
than  any  settled  malignity.  He  was  steady  and  inflexible  in 
maintaining  the  obligations  of  religion  and  morality,  both  from 
a  regard  for  the  order  of  society,  and  from  a  veneration  for  the 
Great  Source  of  all  order;  correct,  nay,  stern  in  his  taste;  hard 
to  please,  and  easily  offended;  impetuous  and  irritable  in  his 
temper,  but  of  a  most  humane  and  benevolent  heart,  which 
showed  itself  not  only  in  a  most  liberal  charity,  as  far  as  his 
circumstances  would  allow,  but  in  a  thousand  instances  of 
active  benevolence.  He  was  afflicted  with  a  bodily  disease 
which  made  him  often  restless  and  fretful,  and  with  a  consti- 
tutional melancholy,  the  clouds  of  which  darkened  the  bright- 
ness of  his  fancy  and  gave  a  gloomy  cast  to  his  whole  course 
of  thinking;  we  therefore  ought  not  to  wonder  at  his  sallies  of 
impatience  and  passion  at  any  time,  especially  when  provoked 
by  obtrusive  ignorance  or  presuming  petulance ;  and  allowance 
must  be  made  for  his  uttering  hasty  and  satirical  sallies  even 
against  his  best  friends.  And  surely,  when  it  is  considered 
that  "amidst  sickness  and  sorrow"  he  exerted  his  faculties  in 
so  many  works  for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  and  particularly 
that  he  achieved  the  great  and  admirable  Dictionary  of  our 
language,  we  must  be  astonished  at  his  resolution.  The  sol- 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.     665 

emn  text,  "Of  him  to  whom  much  is  given  much  will  be  re- 
quired," seems  to  have  been  ever  present  to  his  mind,  in  a 
rigorous  sense,  and  to  have  made  him  dissatisfied  with  his  la- 
bors and  acts  of  goodness,  however  comparatively  great;  so  that 
the  unavoidable  consciousness  of  his  superiority  was,  in  that  re- 
spect, a  cause  of  disquiet.  He  suffered  so  much  from  this,  and 
from  the  gloom  which  perpetually  haunted  him  and  made  soli- 
tude frightful,  that  it  may  be  said  of  him,  "  If  in  this  life  only  he 
had  hope,  he  was  of  all  men  most  miserable."  He  loved  praise, 
when  it  was  brought  to  him,  but  was  too  proud  to  seek  for  it. 
He  was  somewhat  susceptible  of  flattery.  As  he  was  general  and 
unconfined  in  his  studies,  he  cannot  be  considered  as  master  of 
any  one  particular  science ;  but  he  had  accumulated  a  vast  and 
various  collection  of  learning  and  knowledge,  which  was  so  ar- 
ranged in  his  mind  as  to  be  ever  in  readiness  to  be  brought  forth. 
But  his  superiority  over  other  learned  men  consisted  chiefly 
in  what  may  be  called  the  art  of  thinking,  the  art  of  using  his 
mind, — a  certain  continual  power  of  seizing  the  useful  sub- 
stance of  all  that  he  knew,  and  exhibiting  it  in  a  clear  and  forci- 
ble manner;  so  that  knowledge,  which  we  often  see  to  be  no 
better  than  lumber  in  men  of  dull  understanding,  was  in  him 
true,  evident,  and  actual  wisdom.  His  moral  precepts  are  prac- 
tical, for  they  are  drawn  from  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
human  nature.  His  maxims  carry  conviction,  for  they  are 
founded  on  the  basis  of  common  sense,  and  a  very  attentive  and 
minute  survey  of  real  life.  His  mind  was  so  full  of  imagery  that 
he  might  have  been  perpetually  a  poet;  yet  it  is  remarkable  that, 
however  rich  his  prose  is  in  this  respect,  his  poetical  pieces  in 
general  have  not  much  of  that  splendor,  but  are  rather  distin- 
guished by  strong  sentiment  and  acute  observation,  conveyed  in 
harmonious  and  energetic  verse,  particularly  heroic  couplets. 
Though  usually  grave  and  even  awful  in  his  deportment,  he 
possessed  uncommon  and  peculiar  powers  of  wit  and  humor; 
he  frequently  indulged  himself  in  colloquial  pleasantry,  and  the 
heartiest  merriment  was  often  enjoyed  in  his  company;  with  this 
great  advantage,  that  it  was  entirely  free  from  any  poisonous 
tincture  of  vice  and  impiety, — it  was  salutary  to  those  who 
shared  in  it.  He  had  accustomed  himself  to  such  accuracy  in  his 
common  conversation,  that  he  at  all  times  expressed  his  thoughts 
with  great  force,  and  an  elegant  choice  of  language,  the  effect  of 


666  JAMES  BOSWELL 

i 

which  was  aided  by  his  having  a  loud  voice  and  a  slow,  deliberate 
utterance.  In  him  were  united  a  most  logical  head  with  a  most 
fertile  imagination,  which  gave  him  an  extraordinary  advantage 
in  arguing;  for  he  could  reason  close  or  wide,  as  he  saw  best  for 
the  moment.  Exulting  in  his  intellectual  strength  and  dexterity, 
he  could,  when  he  pleased,  be  the  greatest  sophist  that  ever  con- 
tended in  the  lists  of  declamation;  and,  from  a  spirit  of  contra- 
diction and  a  delight  in  showing  his  powers,  he  would  often 
maintain  the  wrong  side  with  equal  warmth  and  ingenuity;  so 
that  when  there  was  an  audience,  his  real  opinions  could  seldom 
be  gathered  from  his  talk,  though  when  he  was  in  company  with 
a  single  friend  he  would  discuss  a  subject  with  genuine  fairness. 
But  he  was  too  conscientious  to  make  error  permanent  and  per- 
nicious by  deliberately  writing  it;  and  in  all  his  numerous  works 
he  earnestly  inculcated  what  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  truth, 
his  piety  being  constant,  and  the  ruling  principle  of  all  his 
conduct. 

Such  was  Samuel  Johnson,  a  man  whose  talents,  acquirements, 
and  virtues  were  so  extraordinary  that  the  more  his  character  is 
considered,  the  more  he  will  be  regarded  by  the  present  age,  and 
by  posterity,  with  admiration  and  reverence. 


AN    INQUIRY    CONCERNING    POLITICAL  JUSTICE 

AND   ITS    INFLUENCE    ON    GENERAL   VIRTUE   AND 
HAPPINESS 

1793 

[This  work,  the  chief  theoretical  representative  in  England  of  the 
"  spirit  of  1789,"  had  a  large  sale  and  exerted  no  little  influence,  even  after 
the  time  when  Godwin  himself  had  modified  his  earlier  views.  The  ex- 
tracts reprinted  below  represent  some  of  the  more  famous  instances  of  the 
Author's  radicalism;  the  student  should  perhaps  be  cautioned  not  to  con- 
sider them  as  altogether  typical  of  the  tenor  of  the  work  as  a  whole.  They 
are  from  Book  n,  chap,  vi;  Book  in,  chapters  v  and  vi;  Book  v,  chap,  xi; 
and  Book  vni,  chap,  vi.] 

THE  EXERCISE   OF  PRIVATE  JUDGMENT 

. . .  PUNISHMENT  is  not  the  appropriate  mode  of  correcting  the 
errors  of  mankind.  It  will  probably  be  admitted  that  the  only 
true  end  of  punishment  is  correction.  That  question  will  be  dis- 
cussed in  another  part  of  the  present  inquiry.  I  have  done  some- 
thing which,  though  wrong  in  itself,  I  believe  to  be  right;  or  I 
have  done  something  which  I  usually  admit  to  be  wrong;  but  my 
conviction  upon  the  subject  is  not  so  clear  and  forcible  as  to  pre- 
vent my  yielding  to  a  powerful  temptation.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  proper  way  of  conveying  to  my  understanding  a 
truth  of  which  I  am  ignorant,  or  of  impressing  upon  me  a  firmer 
persuasion  of  a  truth  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  is  by  an  ap- 
peal to  my  reason.  Even  an  angry  expostulation  with  me  upon 
my  conduct  will  but  excite  similar  passions  in  me,  and  cloud  in- 
stead of  illuminate  my  understanding.  There  is  certainly  a  way 
of  expressing  truth  with  such  benevolence  as  to  command  at- 
tention, and  such  evidence  as  to  enforce  conviction  in  all  cases 
whatever. 

Punishment  inevitably  excites  in  the  sufferer,  and  ought  to 
excite,  a  sense  of  injustice.  Let  its  purpose  be  to  convince  me  of 
the  truth  of  a  proposition  which  I  at  present  believe  to  be  false. 
It  is  not  abstractedly  considered  of  the  nature  of  an  argument, 


668  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

and  therefore  it  cannot  begin  with  producing  conviction.  Pun- 
ishment is  a  specious  name,  but  is  in  reality  nothing  more  than 
force  put  upon  one  being  by  another  who  happens  to  be  stronger. 
Now  strength  apparently  does  not  constitute  justice,  nor  ought 
"  might,"  according  to  a  trite  proverb,  to  "overcome  right."  The 
case  of  punishment,  which  we  are  now  considering,  is  the  case  of 
you  and  I  differing  in  opinion,  and  your  telling  me  that  you  must 
be  right,  since  you  have  a  more  brawny  arm,  or  have  applied  your 
mind  more  to  the  acquiring  skill  in  your  weapons  than  I  have. 

But  let  us  suppose  that  I  am  convinced  of  my  error,  but  that 
my  conviction  is  superficial  and  fluctuating,  and  the  object  you 
propose  is  to  render  it  durable  and  profound.  Ought  it  to  be 
thus  durable  and  profound?  There  are  no  doubt  arguments  and 
reasons  calculated  to  render  it  so.  Is  it  in  reality  problematical, 
and  do  you  wish  by  the  weight  of  your  blows  to  make  up  for  the 
deficiency  of  your  logic?  This  can  never  be  defended.  An  appeal 
to  force  must  appear  to  both  parties,  in  proportion  to  the  sound- 
ness of  their  understanding,  to  be  a  confession  of  imbecility.  He 
that  has  recourse  to  it  would  have  no  occasion  for  this  expedient, 
if  he  were  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  powers  of  that  truth 
it  is  his  office  to  communicate.  If  there  be  any  man  who,  in  suf- 
fering punishment,  is  not  conscious  of  injustice,  he  must  have 
had  his  mind  previously  debased  by  slavery,  and  his  sense  of 
moral  right  and  wrong  blunted  by  a  series  of  oppression.  .  .  V  * 

Notwithstanding  all  these  objections,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  a  country  respecting  which  we  could  say  that  the  inhabit- 
ants might  with  safety-  be  dismissed  from  the  operation  of  pun- 
ishment. So  mixed  is  human  character,  so  wild  are  its  excur- 
sions, so  calamitous  and  detestable  are  the  errors  into  which  it 
occasionally  falls,  that  something  more  than  argument  seems 
necessary  for  their  suppression.  Human  beings  are  such  tyros 
in  the  art  of  reasoning,  that  the  wisest  of  us  often  prove  im- 
potent in  our  attempts,  where  an  instant  effect  was  most  power- 
fully wanted.  While  I  stand  still  to  reason  with  the  thief,  the 
assassin,  or  the  oppressor,  they  hasten  to  new  scenes  of  devas- 
tation, and  with  unsparing  violence  confound  all  the  principles'' 
of  human  society.  I  should  obtain  little  success  by  the  aboli- 
tion of  punishment,  unless  I  could  at  the  same  time  abolish 
those  causes  that  generate  temptation  and  make  punishment 
necessary.  Meanwhile  the  arguments  already  adduced  may  be 


POLITICAL  JUSTICE  669 

sufficient  to  show  that  punishment  is  always  an  evil,  and  to  per- 
suade us  never  to  recur  to  it  but  from  the  most  evident  neces- 
sity. 

LEGISLATION  —  OBEDIENCE 

Having  thus  far  investigated  the  nature  of  political  functions, 
it  seems  necessary  that  some  explanation  should  be  given  in  this 
place  upon  the  subject  of  legislation.  Who  is  it  that  has  the 
authority  to  make  laws?  What  are  the  characteristics  by  which 
that  man  or  body  of  men  is  to  be  known,  in  whom  the  faculty  is 
vested  of  legislating  for  the  rest? 

To  these  questions  the  answer  is  exceedingly  simple:  legisla- 
tion, as  it  has  been  usually  understood,  is  not  an  affair  of  human 
competence.  Reason  is  the  only  legislator,  and  her  decrees  are 
irrevocable  and  uniform.  The  functions  of  society  extend  not  to 
the  making,  but  the  interpreting  of  law;  it  cannot  decree;  it 
can  only  declare  that  which  the  nature  of  things  has  already  de- 
creed, and  the  propriety  of  which  irresistibly  flows  from  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case.  Montesquieu  says  that  "in  a  free  state 
every  man  will  be  his  own  legislator."  This  is  not  true,  setting 
apart  the  functions  of  the  community,  unless  in  the  limited 
sense  already  explained.  It  is  the  office  of  conscience  to  deter- 
mine, "not  like  an  Asiatic  cadi,  according  to  the  ebbs  and  flows 
of  his  own  passions,  but  like  a  British  judge,  who  makes  no  new 
law,  but  faithfully  declares  that  law  which  he  finds  already 
written." 

The  same  distinction  is  to  be  made  upon  the  subject  of  author- 
ity. All  political  power  is,  strictly  speaking,  executive.  It  has 
appeared  to  be  necessary,  with  respect  to  men  as  we  at  present 
find  them,  that  force  should  sometimes  be  employed  in  repress- 
ing injustice;  and  for  the  same  reasons  it  appears  that  this  force 
should  as  far  as  possible  be  vested  in  the  community.  To  the 
public  support  of  justice,  therefore,  the  authority  of  the  com- 
munity extends.  But  no  sooner  does  it  wander  in  the  smallest 
degree  from  the  great  line  of  justice,  than  its  authority  is  at  an 
end;  it  stands  upon  a  level  with  the  obscurest  individual,  and 
every  man  is  bound  to  resist  its  decisions. 

.  .  .  The  object  cf  government,  as  has  been  already  demon- 
strated, is  the  exertion  of  force.  Now  force  can  never  be  re- 
garded as  an  appeal  to  the  understanding;  and  therefore  obe- 


670  WILLIAM  GODWIN 

dience,  which  is  an  act  of  the  understanding  or  will,  can  have 
no  legitimate  connection  with  it.  I  am  bound  to  submit  to  jus- 
tice and  truth,  because  they  approve  themselves  to  my  judg- 
ment. I  am  bound  to  cooperate  with  government,  as  far  as  it 
appears  to  me  to  coincide  with  these  principles.  But  I  submit  to 
government  when  I  think  it  erroneous,  merely  because  I  have 
no  remedy. 

No  truth  can  be  more  simple,  at  the  same  time  that  no  truth 
has  been  more  darkened  by  the  glosses  of  interested  individ- 
uals, than  that  one  man  can  in  no  case  be  bound  to  yield  obe- 
dience to  any  other  man  or  set  of  men  upon  earth. 

There  is  one  rule  to  which  we  are  universally  bound  to  con- 
form ourselves,  justice,  —  the  treating  every  man  precisely  as 
his  usefulness  and  worth  demand,  — the  acting  under  every  cir- 
cumstance in  the  manner  that  shall  procure  the  greatest  quan- 
tity of  general  good.  When  we  have  done  thus,  what  province 
is  there  left  to  the  disposal  of  obedience?  .  .  . 

The  abuse  of  the  doctrine  of  confidence  has  been  the  source  of 
more  calamities  to  mankind  than  all  the  other  errors  of  the  hu- 
man understanding.  Depravity  would  have  gained  little  ground 
in  the  world,  if  every  man  had  been  in  the  exercise  of  his  inde- 
pendent judgment.  The  instrument  by  which  extensive  mis- 
chiefs have  in  all  ages  been  perpetrated,  has  been  the  principle 
of  many  men  being  reduced  to  mere  machines  in  the  hands  of  a 
few.  Man,  while  he  consults  his  own  understanding,  is  the  orna- 
ment of  the  universe.  Man,  when  he  surrenders  his  reason,  and 
becomes  the  partisan  of  implicit  faith  and  passive  obedience,  is 
the  most  mischievous  of  animals.  Ceasing  to  examine  every 
proposition  that  comes  before  him  for  the  direction  of  his  con- 
duct, he  is  no  longer  the  capable  subject  of  moral  instruction. 
He  is,  in  the  instant  of  submission,  the  blind  instrument  of  every 
nefarious  purpose  of  his  principal;  and,  when  left  to  himself,  is 
open  to  the  seduction  of  injustice,  cruelty,  and  profligacy. 

These  reasonings  lead  to  a  proper  explanation  of  the  word 
subject.  If  by  the  subject  of  any  government  we  mean  a  person 
whose  duty  it  is  to  obey,  the  true  inference  from  the  preceding 
principles  is  that  no  government  has  any  subjects.  If  on  the  con- 
trary we  mean  a  person  whom  the  government  is  bound  to  pro- 
tect, or  may  justly  restrain,  the  word  is  sufficiently  admissible. 


POLITICAL  JUSTICE  671 

MORAL  EFFECTS   OF  ARISTOCRACY 

Of  all  the  principles  of  justice  there  is  none  so  material  to  the 
moral  rectitude  of  mankind  as  this,  that  no  man  can  be  distin- 
guished but  by  his  personal  merit.  Why  not  endeavor  to  reduce 
to  practice  so  simple  and  sublime  a  lesson?  When  a  man  has 
proved  himself  a  benefactor  to  the  public,  when  he  has  already 
by  laudable  perseverance  cultivated  in  himself  talents  which 
need  only  encouragement  and  public  favor  to  bring  them  to 
maturity,  let  that  man  be  honored.  In  a  state  of  society  where 
fictitious  distinctions  are  unknown,  it  is  impossible  he  should 
not  be  honored.  But  that  a  man  should  be  looked  up  to  with 
servility  and  awe,  because  the  king  has  bestowed  on  him  a  spuri- 
ous name,  or  decorated  him  with  a  ribbon;  that  another  should 
wallow  in  luxury,  because  his  ancestor  three  centuries  ago  bled 
in  the  quarrel  of  Lancaster  or  York ;  do  we  imagine  that  these 
iniquities  can  be  practiced  without  injury? 

Let  those  who  entertain  this  opinion  converse  a  little  with  the 
lower  orders  of  mankind.  They  will  perceive  that  the  unfortun- 
ate wretch  who,  with  unremitted  labor,  finds  himself  incapable 
adequately  to  feed  and  clothe  his  family,  has  a  sense  of  injus- 
tice rankling  at  his  heart. 

One  whom  distress  has  spited  with  the  world 
Is  he  whom  tempting  fiends  would  pitch  upon 
To  do  such  deeds  as  make  the  prosperous  men 
Lift  up  their  hands  and  wonder  who  could  do  them. 

Such  is  the  education  of  the  human  species.  Such  is  the  fabric 
of  political  society. 

But  let  us  suppose  that  their  sense  of  injustice  were  less  acute 
than  it  is  here  described,  what  favorable  inference  can  be  drawn 
from  that?  Is  not  the  injustice  real?  If  the  minds  of  men  be  so 
withered  and  stupefied  by  the  constancy  with  which  it  is  prac- 
ticed, that  they  do  not  feel  the  rigor  that  grinds  them  into 
nothing,  how  does  that  improve  the  picture? 

Let  us  for  a  moment  give  the  reins  to  reflection,  and  en- 
deavor accurately  to  conceive  the  state  of  mankind  where  jus- 
tice should  form  the  public  and  general  principle.  In  that  case 
our  moral  feelings  would  assume  a  firm  and  wholesome  tone,  for 
they  would  not  be  perpetually  counteracted  by  examples  that 
weakened  their  energy  and  confounded  their  clearness.  Men 


672  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

would  be  fearless,  because  they  would  know  that  there  were  no 
legal  snares  lying  in  wait  for  their  lives.  They  would  be  cour- 
ageous, because  no  man  would  be  pressed  to  the  earth  that  an- 
other might  enjoy  immoderate  luxury,  because  every  one  would 
be  secure  of  the  just  reward  of  his  industry  and  prize  of  his  exer- 
tions. Jealousy  and  hatred  would  cease,  for  they  are  the  off- 
spring of  injustice.  Every  man  would  speak  truth  with  his 
neighbor,  for  there  would  be  no  temptation  to  falsehood  and 
deceit.  Mind  would  find  its  level,  for  there  would  be  everything 
to  encourage  and  to  animate.  Science  would  be  unspeakably 
improved,  for  understanding  would  convert  into  a  real  power, 
no  longer  an  ignis  fatuus,  shining  and  expiring  by  turns,  and 
leading  us  into  sloughs  of  sophistry,  false  science,  and  specious 
mistake.  All  men  would  be  disposed  to  avow  their  dispositions 
and  actions;  none  would  endeavor  to  suppress  the  just  eulogium 
of  his  neighbor,  for,  so  long  as  there  were  tongues  to  record,  the 
suppression  would  be  impossible ;  none  fear  to  detect  the  mis- 
conduct of  his  neighbor,  for  there  would  be  no  laws  converting 
the  sincere  expression  of  our  convictions  into  a  libel. 

Let  us  fairly  consider  for  a  moment  what  is  the  amount  of  in- 
justice included  in  the  institution  of  aristocracy.  I  am  born,  sup- 
pose, a  Polish  prince,  with  an  income  of  £300,000  per  annum. 
You  are  born  a  manorial  serf  or  a  Creolian  negro,  by  the  law  of 
your  birth  attached  to  the  soil,  and  transferable  by  barter  or 
otherwise  to  twenty  successive  lords.  In  vain  shall  be  your  most 
generous  efforts  and  your  unwearied  industry  to  free  yourself 
from  the  intolerable  yoke.  Doomed  by  the  law  of  your  birth  to 
wait  at  the  gates  of  the  palace  you  must  never  enter,  to  sleep  un- 
der a  ruined  weather-beaten  roof,  while  your  master  sleeps  un- 
der canopies  of  state,  to  feed  on  putrefied  offals  while  the  world 
is  ransacked  for  delicacies  for  his  table,  to  labor  without  modera- 
tion of  limit  under  a  parching  sun,  while  he  basks  in  perpetual 
sloth,  and  to  be  rewarded  at  last  with  contempt,  reprimand, 
stripes,  and  mutilation.  In  fact  the  case  is  worse  than  this.  I 
could  endure  all  that  injustice  or  caprice  could  inflict,  provided 
I  possessed  in  the  resource  of  a  firm  mind  the  power  of  looking 
down  with  pity  on  my  tyrant,  and  of  knowing  that  I  had  that 
within,  —  that  sacred  character  of  truth,  virtue,  and  fortitude, 
—  which  all  his  injustice  could  not  reach.  But  a  slave  and  a  serf 
are  condemned  to  stupidity  and  vice,  as  well  as  to  calamity. 


POLITICAL  JUSTICE  673 

Is  all  this  nothing?  Is  all  this  necessary  for  the  maintenance 
of  civil  order?  Let  it  be  recollected  that  for  this  distinction 
there  is  not  the  smallest  foundation  in  the  nature  of  things;  that, 
as  we  have  already  said,  there  is  no  particular  mold  for  the  con- 
struction of  lords,  and  that  they  are  born  neither  better  nor 
worse  than  the  poorest  of  their  dependents.  It  is  this  structure 
of  aristocracy,  in  all  its  sanctuaries  and  fragments,  against  which 
reason  and  philosophy  have  declared  war.  It  is  alike  unjust, 
whether  we  consider  it  in  the  castes  of  India,  the  villainage  of 
the  feudal  system,  or  the  despotism  of  the  patricians  of  ancient 
Rome  dragging  their  debtors  into  personal  servitude  to  expiate 
loans  they  could  not  repay.  Mankind  will  never  be  in  an  emi- 
nent degree  virtuous  and  happy,  till  each  man  shall  possess 
that  portion  of  distinction,  and  no  more,  to  which  he  is  entitled 
by  his  personal  merits.  The  dissolution  of  aristocracy  is  equally 
the  interest  of  the  oppressor  and  the  oppressed.  The  one  will  be 
delivered  from  the  littleness  of  tyranny,  and  the  other  from  the 
brutalizing  operation  of  servitude.  .  .  . 

[EVILS  OF  MARRIAGE] 

...  It  is  absurd  to  expect  that  the  inclinations  and  wishes 
of  two  human  beings  should  coincide  through  any  long  period 
of  time.  To  oblige  them  to  act  and  to  live  together  is  to  sub- 
ject them  to  some  inevitable  portion  of  thwarting,  bickering, 
and  unhappiness.  This  cannot  be  otherwise,  so  long  as  man 
has  failed  to  reach  the  standard  of  absolute  perfection.  The 
supposition  that  I  must  have  a  companion  for  life,  is  the  result 
of  a  complication  of  vices.  It  is  the  dictate  of  cowardice,  and 
not  of  fortitude.  It  flows  from  the  desire  of  being  loved  and 
esteemed  for  something  that  is  not  desert. 

But  the  evil  of  marriage  as  it  is  practiced  in  European  coun- 
tries lies  deeper  than  this.  The  habit  is,  for  a  thoughtless  and 
romantic  youth  of  each  sex  to  come  together,  to  see  each  other 
for  a  few  times  and  under  circumstances  full  of  delusion,  and 
then  to  vow  to  each  other  eternal  attachment.  What  is  the  con- 
sequence of  this?  In  almost  every  instance  they  find  themselves 
deceived.  They  are  reduced  to  make  the  best  of  an  irretrievable 
mistake.  They  are  presented  with  the  strongest  imaginable 
temptation  to  become  the  dupes  of  falsehood.  They  are  led  to 
conceive  it  their  wisest  policy  to  shut  their  eyes  upon  realities. 


674  WILLIAM   GODWIN 

happy  if  by  any  perversion  of  intellect  they  can  persuade  them- 
selves that  they  were  right  in  their  first  crude  opinion  of  their 
companion.  The  institution  of  marriage  is  a  system  of  fraud; 
and  men  who  carefully  mislead  their  judgments  in  the  daily  af- 
fair of  their  life,  must  always  have  a  crippled  judgment  in  every 
other  concern.  We  ought  to  dismiss  our  mistake  as  soon  as  it  is 
detected ;  but  we  are  taught  to  cherish  it.  We  ought  to  be  inces- 
sant in  our  search  after  virtue  and  worth ;  but  we  are  taught  to 
check  our  inquiry,  and  shut  our  eyes  upon  the  most  attractive 
and  admirable  objects.  Marriage  is  law,  and  the  worst  of  all 
laws.  Whatever  our  understandings  may  tell  us  of  the  person 
from  whose  connection  we  should  derive  the  greatest  improve- 
ment, of  the  worth  of  one  woman  and  the  demerits  of  another, 
we  are  obliged  to  consider  what  is  law,  and  not  what  is  justice. 

Add  to  this  that  marriage  is  an  affair  of  property,  and  the 
worst  of  all  properties.  So  long  as  two  human  beings  are  for- 
bidden by  positive  institution  to  follow  the  dictates  of  their 
own  mind,  prejudice  is  alive  and  vigorous.  So  long  as  I  seek  to 
engross  one  woman  to  myself,  and  to  prohibit  my  neighbor  from 
proving  his  superior  desert  and  reaping  the  fruits  of  it,  I  am 
guilty  of  the  most  odious  of  all  monopolies.  Over  this  imaginary 
prize  men  watch  with  perpetual  jealousy,  and  one  man  will  find 
his  desires  and  his  capacity  to  circumvent  as  much  excited  as 
the  other  is  excited  to  traverse  his  projects  and  frustrate  his 
hopes.  As  long  as  this  state  of  society  continues,  philanthropy 
will  be  crossed  and  checked  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  the  still 
augmenting  stream  of  abuse  will  continue  to  flow. 

The  abolition  of  marriage  will  be  attended  with  no  evils.  We 
are  apt  to  represent  it  to  ourselves  as  the  harbinger  of  brutal 
lust  and  depravity.  But  it  really  happens,  in  this  as  in  other 
cases,  that  the  positive  laws  which  are  made  to  restrain  our 
vices,  irritate  and  multiply  them.  Not  to  say  that  the  same  sen- 
timents of  justice  and  happiness  which,  in  a  state  of  equal  pro- 
perty, would  destroy  the  relish  for  luxury,  would  decrease  our 
inordinate  appetites  of  every  kind,  and  lead  us  universally  to 
prefer  the  pleasures  of  intellect  to  the  pleasures  of  sense.  .  .  . 

It  cannot  be  definitively  affirmed  whether  it  be  known  in  such 
a  state  of  society  who  is  the  father  of  each  individual  child.  But 
it  may  be  affirmed  that  such  knowledge  will  be  of  no  importance. 
It  is  aristocracy,  self-love,  and  family  pride  that  teach  us  to  set 


POLITICAL  JUSTICE  675 

a  value  upon  it  at  present.  I  ought  to  prefer  no  human  being  to 
another  because  that  being  is  my  father,  my  wife,  or  my  son,  but 
because,  for  reasons  which  equally  appeal  to  all  understandings, 
that  being  is  entitled  to  preference.  One  among  the  measures 
which  will  successively  be  dictated  by  the  spirit  of  democracy, 
and  that  probably  at  no  great  distance,  is  the  abolition  <)f  sur- 
names. .  •  • 


ANN   RADCLIFFE 
THE   MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPHO 

1794 

[This  romance,  the  best  known  of  its  author's  works,  is  sometimes  re- 
garded as  the  first  of  the  "tales  of  terror"  (but  see  Walpole's  Otranto, 
above).  The  following  extract  exemplifies  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  "peculiar  art 
of  exciting  terror  and  impatient  curiosity  by  the  invention  of  incidents 
apparently  supernatural,  but  eventually  receiving  a  natural  explanation," 
and  at  the  same  time  her  use  of  natural  scenery  as  the  setting  for  the 
action  of  her  romances,  on  account  of  which  she  has  been  considered  "a 
precursor  of  that  general  movement  towards  the  delineation  and  com- 
prehension of  external  nature  which  was  to  characterize  the  nineteenth 
century."  (Both  quotations  are  from  Dr.  Richard  Garnett's  article  in  the 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography.)  The  passages  here  reprinted  are  from 
chapters  XVIII  and  XIX.] 

...  AT  length  the  travelers  began  to  ascend  among  the  Apen- 
nines. The  immense  pine  forests,  which  at  that  period  overhung 
these  mountains,  and  between  which  the  road  wound,  excluded 
all  view  but  of  the  cliffs  aspiring  above,  except  that  now  and  then 
an  opening  through  the  dark  woods  allowed  the  eye  a  moment- 
ary glimpse  of  the  country  below.  The  gloom  of  these  shades, 
their  solitary  silence,  except  when  the  breeze  swept  over  their 
summits,  the  tremendous  precipices  of  the  mountains  that  came 
partially  to  the  eye,  each  assisted  to  raise  the  solemnity  of  Emily's 
feelings  into  awe.  She  saw  only  images  of  gloomy  grandeur  or  of 
dreadful  sublimity  around  her;  other  images,  equally  gloomy 
and  equally  terrible,  gleamed  on  her  imagination.  She  was  go- 
ing, she  scarcely  knew  whither,  under  the  dominion  of  a  person 
from  whose  arbitrary  disposition  she  had  already  suffered  so 
much,  to  marry,  perhaps,  a  man  who  possessed  neither  her  af- 
fection nor  esteem,  or  to  endure,  beyond  the  hope  of  succor, 
whatever  punishment  revenge  —  and  that  Italian  revenge  — 
might  dictate.  The  more  she  considered  what  might  be  the  mo- 
tive of  the  journey,  the  more  she  became  convinced  that  it  was 
for  the  purpose  of  concluding  her  nuptials  with  Count  Morano, 
with  the  secrecy  which  her  resolute  resistance  had  made  neces- 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPHO  677 

sary  to  the  honor,  if  not  the  safety,  of  Montoni.  From  the  deep 
solitudes  into  which  she  was  emerging,  and  from  the  gloomy 
castle  of  which  she  had  heard  some  mysterious  hints,  her  sick 
heart  recoiled  in  despair,  and  she  experienced  that,  though  her 
mind  was  already  occupied  by  peculiar  distress,  it  was  still  alive 
to  the  influence  of  a  new  and  local  circumstance ;  why  else  did 
she  shudder  at  the  image  of  this  desolate  castle? 

As  the  travelers  still  ascended  among  the  pine  forests,  steep 
rose  over  steep,  the  mountains  seemed  to  multiply  as  they  went, 
and  what  was  the  summit  of  one  eminence  proved  to  be  only  the 
base  of  another.  At  length  they  reached  a  little  plain,  where  the 
drivers  stopped  to  rest  the  mules,  whence  a  scene  of  such  extent 
and  magnificence  opened  below  as  drew  even  from  Madame 
Montoni  a  note  of  admiration.  Emily  lost,  for  a  moment,  her 
sorrows  in  the  immensity  of  nature.  Beyond  the  amphitheatre 
of  mountains  that  stretched  below,  whose  tops  appeared  as 
numerous  almost  as  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  whose  feet  were 
concealed  by  the  forests,  extended  the  campagna  of  Italy,  where 
cities,  and  rivers,  and  woods,  and  all  the  glow  of  cultivation, 
were  mingled  in  gay  confusion.  The  Adriatic  bounded  the  hori- 
zon, into  which  the  Po  and  the  Brenta,  after  winding  through  the 
whole  extent  of  the  landscape,  poured  their  fruitful  waves. 
Emily  gazed  long  on  the  splendors  of  the  world  she  was  quitting, 
of  which  the  whole  magnificence  seemed  thus  given  to  her  sight 
only  to  increase  her  regret  on  leaving  it.  ... 

From  this  sublime  scene  the  travelers  continued  to  ascend 
among  the  pines,  till  they  entered  a  narrow  pass  of  the  moun- 
tains, which  shut  out  every  feature  of  the  distant  country,  and 
in  its  stead  exhibited  only  tremendous  crags,  impending  over 
the  road,  where  no  vestige  of  humanity,  or  even  of  vegetation, 
appeared,  except  here  and  there  the  trunk  and  scathed  branches 
of  an  oak,  that  hung  nearly  headlong  from  the  rock  into  which 
its  strong  roots  had  fastened.  This  pass,  which  led  into  the 
heart  of  the  Apennines,  at  length  opened  to  day,  and  a  scene  of 
mountains  stretched  in  long  perspective,  as  wild  as  any  the 
travelers  had  yet  passed.  Still  vast  pine  forests  hung  upon  their 
base,  and  crowned  the  ridgy  precipice  that  rose  perpendicularly 
from  the  vale,  while  above  the  rolling  mists  caught  the  sun- 
beams, and  touched  their  cliffs  with  all  the  magical  coloring  of 
light  and  shade.  The  scene  seemed  perpetually  changing,  and 


678  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

its  features  to  assume  new  forms,  as  the  winding  road  brought 
them  to  the  eye  in  different  attitudes ;  while  the  shifting  vapors, 
now  partially  concealing  their  minuter  beauties,  and  now  il- 
luminating them  with  splendid  tints,  assisted  the  illusions  of 
the  sight. 

Though  the  deep  valleys  between  these  mountains  were,  for 
the  most  part,  clothed  with  pines,  sometimes  an  abrupt  opening 
presented  a  perspective  of  only  barren  rocks,  with  a  cataract 
flashing  from  their  summit  among  broken  cliffs,  till  its  waters, 
reaching  the  bottom,  foamed  along  with  louder  fury;  and  some~ 
times  pastoral  scenes  exhibited  their  "green delights  "  in  the  nar- 
row vales,  smiling  amidst  surrounding  horror.  There  herds  and 
flocks  of  goats  and  sheep,  browsing  under  the  shade  of  hanging 
woods,  and  the  shepherd's  little  cabin,  reared  on  the  margin  of 
a  clear  stream,  presented  a  sweet  picture  of  repose. 

Wild  and  romantic  as  were  these  scenes,  their  character  had 
far  less  of  the  sublime  than  had  those  of  the  Alps,  which  guard 
the  entrance  of  Italy.  Emily  was  often  elevated,  but  seldom 
felt  those  emotions  of  indescribable  awe  which  she  had  so  con- 
tinually experienced  in  her  passage  over  the  Alps. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  the  road  wound  into  a  deep 
valley.  Mountains,  whose  shaggy  steeps  appeared  to  be  inac- 
cessible, almost  surrounded  it.  To  the  east,  a  vista  opened,  and 
exhibited  the  Apennines  in  their  darkest  horrors;  and  the  long 
perspective  of  retiring  summits  rising  over  each  other,  their 
ridges  clothed  with  pines,  exhibited  a  stronger  image  of  grandeur 
than  any  that  Emily  had  yet  seen.  The  sun  had  just  sunk  below 
the  top  of  the  mountains  she  was  descending,  whose  long  shadow 
stretched  athwart  the  valley,  but  his  sloping  rays,  shooting 
through  an  opening  in  the  cliffs,  touched  with  a  yellow  gleam 
the  summits  of  the  forest  that  hung  upon  the  opposite  steeps, 
and  streamed  in  full  splendor  upon  the  towers  and  battlements 
of  a  castle  that  spread  its  extensive  ramparts  along  the  brow  of 
a  precipice  above.  The  splendor  of  these  illuminated  objects  was 
heightened  by  the  contrasted  shade  which  involved  the  valley 
below. 

" There,"  said  Montoni,  speaking  for  the  first  time  in  several 
hours,  "is  Udolpho." 

Emily  gazed  with  melancholy  awe  upon  the  castle,  which  she 
understood  to  be  Montoni 's;  for,  though  it  was  now  lighted  up 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPHO  679 

by  the  setting  sun,  the  Gothic  greatness  of  its  features,  and  its 
moldering  walls  of  dark  gray  stone,  rendered  it  a  gloomy  and 
sublime  object.  As  she  gazed,  the  light  died  away  on  its  walls, 
leaving  a  melancholy  purple  tint,  which  spread  deeper  and 
deeper  as  the  thin  vapor  crept  up  the  mountain,  while  the  bat- 
tlements were  still  tipped  with  splendor.  From  those  too  the 
rays  soon  faded,  and  the  whole  edifice  was  invested  with  the 
solemn  duskiness  of  evening.  Silent,  lonely,  and  sublime,  it 
seemed  to  stand  the  sovereign  of  the  scene,  and  to  frown  defiance 
on  all  who  dared  to  invade  its  solitary  reign.  As  the  twilight 
deepened,  its  features  became  more  awful  in  obscurity;  and 
Emily  continued  to  gaze,  till  its  clustering  towers  were  alone 
seen  rising  over  the  tops  of  the  woods,  beneath  whose  thick  shade 
the  carriages  soon  after  began  to  ascend. 

The  extent  and  darkness  of  these  tall  woods  awakened  terrific 
images  in  Emily's  mind,  and  she  almost  expected  to  see  banditti 
start  up  from  under  the  trees.  At  length  the  carriages  emerged 
upon  a  heathy  rock,  and  soon  after  reached  the  castle  gates, 
where  the  deep  tones  of  the  portal  bell,  which  was  struck  upon 
to  give  notice  of  their  arrival,  increased  the  fearful  emotions 
that  had  assailed  Emily.  While  they  waited  till  the  servant 
within  should  come  to  open  the  gates,  she  anxiously  surveyed 
the  edifice ;  but  the  gloom  that  overspread  it  allowed  her  to  dis- 
tinguish little  more  than  a  part  of  its  outline,  with  the  massy 
wall  of  the  ramparts,  and  to  know  that  it  was  vast,  ancient,  and 
dreary.  From  the  parts  she  saw,  she  judged  of  the  heavy  strength 
and  extent  of  the  whole.  The  gateway  before  her,  leading  into 
the  courts,  was  of  gigantic  size,  and  was  defended  by  two  round 
towers,  embattled,  where,  instead  of  banners,  now  waved  long 
grass  and  wild  plants  that  had  taken  root  among  the  moldering 
stones,  and  which  seemed  to  sigh,  as  the  breeze  rolled  past,  over 
the  desolation  around  them.  The  towers  were  united  by  a  cur- 
tain, pierced  and  embattled  also,  below  which  appeared  the 
pointed  arch  of  a  huge  portcullis,  surmounting  the  gates.  From 
these  the  walls  of  the  ramparts  extended  to  other  towers,  over- 
looking the  precipice,  whose  shattered  outline,  appearing  on  a 
gleam  that  lingered  in  the  west,  told  of  the  ravages  of  war.  Be- 
yond these  all  was  lost  in  the  obscurity  of  evening. 

While  Emily  gazed  with  awe  upon  the  scene,  footsteps  were 
heard  within  the  gates,  and  the  undrawing  of  bolts,  after  which 


68o  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

an  ancient  servant  of  the  castle  appeared,  forcing  back  the  huge 
folds  of  the  portal  to  admit  his  lord.  As  the  carriage- wheels 
rolled  heavily  under  the  portcullis,  Emily's  heart  sunk,  and  she 
seemed  as  if  she  was  going  into  her  prison.  The  gloomy  court 
into  which  she  passed  served  to  confirm  the  idea,  and  her  im- 
agination, ever  awake  to  circumstance,  suggested  even  more 
terrors  than  her  reason  could  justify.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  know  which  is  my  room?"  said  she  to  Annette,  as 
they  crossed  the  hall. 

"Yes,' I  believe  I  do,  ma'amselle;  but  this  is  such  a  strange, 
rambling  place!  I  have  been  lost  in  it  already.  They  call  it 
the  double  chamber,  over  the  south  rampart,  and  I  went  up 
this  great  staircase.  My  lady's  room  is  at  the  other  end  of  the 
castle." 

Emily  ascended  the  marble  staircase,  and  came  to  the  corri- 
dor, as  they  passed  through  which,  Annette  resumed  her  chat. 
"What  a  wild,  lonely  place  this  is,  ma'am!  I  shall  be  quite 
frightened  to  live  in  it.  How  often  and  how  often  have  I  wished 
myself  in  France  again !  I  little  thought,  when  I  came  with  my 
lady  to  see  the  world,  that  I  should  ever  be  shut  up  in  such  a 
place  as  this,  or  I  would  never  have  left  my  own  country.  — 
This  way,  ma'amselle,  down  this  turning.  I  can  almost  believe 
in  giants  again,  and  such  like,  for  this  is  just  like  one  of  their 
castles;  and  some  night  or  other  I  suppose  I  shall  see  fairies, 
too,  hopping  about  in  that  great  old  hall,  that  looks  more  like 
a  church,  with  its  huge  pillars,  than  anything  else." 

"Yes,"  said  Emily,  smiling,  and  glad  to  escape  from  more  se- 
rious thought.  "  If  we  come  to  the  corridor  about  midnight,  and 
look  down  into  the  hall,  we  shall  certainly  see  it  illuminated  with 
a  thousand  lamps,  and  the  fairies  tripping  in  gay  circles  to  the 
sound  of  delicious  music;  for  it  is  in  such  places  as  this,  you 
know,  that  they  come  to  hold  their  revels.  But  I  am  afraid, 
Annette,  you  will  not  be  able  to  pay  the  necessary  penance 
for  such  a  sight;  and  if  they  once  hear  your  voice,  the  whole 
scene  will  vanish  in  an  instant." 

"Oh!  if  you  will  bear  me  company,  ma'amselle,  I  will  come 
to  the  corridor  this  very  night,  and  I  promise  you  I  will  hold 
my  tongue;  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  the  show  vanishes.  But, 
do  you  think  they  will  come?" 


THE  MYSTERIES   OF  UDOLPHO  68r 

"I  cannot  promise  that  with  certainty,  but  I  will  venture 
to  say  it  will  not  be  your  fault  if  the  enchantment  should 
vanish." 

"Well,  ma'amselle,  that  is  saying  more  than  I  expected  of 
you ;  but  I  am  not  so  much  afraid  of  fairies  as  of  ghosts,  and  they 
say  there  are  plentiful  many  of  them  about  the  castle.  Now  I 
should  be  frightened  to  death  if  I  should  chance  to  see  any  of 
them.  But  hush!  ma'amselle,  —  walk  softly!  I  have  thought, 
several  times,  something  passed  by  me ! " 

"Ridiculous!"  said  Emily.  "You  must  not  indulge  such  fan- 
cies." 

"Oh,  ma'am,  they  are  not  fancies,  for  aught  I  know.  Bene- 
detto says  these  dismal  galleries  and  halls  are  fit  for  nothing  but 
ghosts  to  live  in;  and  I  verily  believe  if  I  live  long  in  them,  I 
shall  turn  to  one  myself!" 

"I  hope,"  said  Emily,  "you  will  not  suffer  Signer  Montoni 
to  hear  of  these  weak  fears;  they  would  highly  displease 
him." 

"What!  you  know,  then,  ma'amselle,  all  about  it!"  rejoined 
Annette.  "No, no,  I  do  know  better  than  to  do  so;  though  if  the 
signer  can  sleep  sound,  nobody  else  in  the  castle  has  any  right  to 
lay  awake,  I  am  sure." 

Emily  did  not  appear  to  notice  this  remark. 

"Down  this  passage,  ma'amselle;  this  leads  to  a  back  stair- 
case. Oh,  'if  I  see  anything  I  shall  be  frightened  out  of  my 
wits!" 

"That  will  scarcely  be  possible,"  said  Emily,  smiling,  as  she 
followed  the  winding  of  the  passage,  which  opened  into  another 
gallery. 

And  then  Annette,  perceiving  that  she  had  missed  her  way 
while  she  had  been  so  eloquently  haranguing  on  ghosts  and 
fairies,  wandered  about  through  other  passages  and  galleries, 
till  at  length,  frightened  by  their  intricacies  and  desolation,  she 
called  aloud  for  assistance.  But  they  were  beyond  the  hearing 
of  the  servants,  who  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  castle;  and 
Emily  now  opened  the  door  of  a  chamber  on  the  left. 

"Oh,  do  not  go  in  there,  ma'amselle,"  said  Annette.  "You 
wil)  only  lose  yourself  farther." 

"Bring  the  light  forward,"  said  Emily;  "we  may  possibly  find 
our  way  through  these  rooms." 


682  ANN  RADCLIFFE 

Annette  stood  at  the  door,  in  an  attitude  of  hesitation,  with 
the  light  held  up  to  show  the  chamber;  but  the  feeble  ray  spread 
through  not  half  of  it. 

"Why  do  you  hesitate?"  said  Emily.  "  Let  me  see  whither 
this  room  leads." 

Annette  advanced  reluctantly.  It  opened  into  a  suite  of  spa- 
cious and  ancient  apartments,  some  of  which  were  hung  with 
tapestry,  and  others  wainscoted  with  cedar  and  black  larch- 
wood.  What  furniture  there  was  seemed  to  be  almost  as  old 
as  the  rooms,  and  retained  an  appearance  of  grandeur  though 
covered  with  dust,  and  dropping  to  pieces  with  the  damps  and 
with  age. 

"How  cold  these  rooms  are,  rna'amselle!"  said  Annette. 
"Nobody  has  lived  in  them  for  many,  many  years,  they  say. 
Do  let  us  go." 

"They  may  open  upon  the  great  staircase,  perhaps,"  said 
Emily,  passing  on  till  she  came  to  a  chamber  hung  with  pic- 
tures, and  took  the  light  to  examine  that  of  a  soldier  on  horse- 
back in  a  field  of  battle.  He  was  darting  his  spear  upon  a  man 
who  lay  under  the  feet  of  the  horse,  and  who  held  up  one  hand 
in  a  supplicating  attitude.  The  soldier,  whose  beaver  was  up, 
regarded  him  with  a  look  of  vengeance,  and  the  countenance, 
with  that  expression,  struck  Emily  as  resembling  Montoni. 
She  shuddered,  and  turned  from  it,  passing  the  light  hastily 
over  several  other  pictures,  till  she  came  to  one  concealed  by 
a  veil  of  black  silk.  The  singularity  of  the  circumstance  struck 
her,  and  she  stopped  before  it,  wishing  to  remove  the  veil,  and 
examine  what  could  thus  carefully  be  concealed,  but  somewhat 
wanting  courage. 

"Holy  Virgin!  what  can  this  mean?"  exclaimed  Annette. 
"This  is  surely  the  picture  they  told  me  of  at  Venice." 

"What  picture?"  said  Emily. 

"Why,  a  picture  —  a  picture,"  replied  Annette,  hesitat- 
ingly; "but  I  never  could  make  out  exactly  what  it  was 
about,  either." 

"Remove  the  veil,  Annette." 

"What!  I,  rna'amselle?  I?  Not  for  the  world !" 

Emily,  turning  round,  saw  Annette's  countenance  grow  pale. 
"And  pray  what  have  you  heard  of  this  picture  to  so  terrify 
you,  my  good  girl?"  said  she. 


THE   MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPHO  683 

"Nothing,  ma'amselle;  I  have  heard  nothing;  only  let  us  find 
our  way  out." 

"  Certainly;  but  I  wish  first  to  examine  the  picture.  Take  the 
light,  Annette,  while  I  lift  the  veil." 

Annette  took  the  light,  and  immediately  walked  away  with  it, 
disregarding  Emily's  call  to  stay,  who,  not  choosing  to  be  left 
alone  in  the  dark  chamber,  at  length  followed  her.  .  .  . 

"Hush!"  said  Emily,  trembling. 

They  listened,  and,  continuing  to  sit  quite  still,  Emily  heard 
a  slow  knocking  against  the  wall.  It  came  repeatedly.  Annette 
then  screamed  loudly,  and  the  chamber  door  slowly  opened.  It 
was  Caterina,  come  to  tell  Annette  that  her  lady  wanted  her. 
Emily,  though  she  now  perceived  who  it  was,  could  not  imme- 
diately overcome  her  terror;  while  Annette,  half  laughing,  half 
crying,  scolded  Caterina  for  thus  alarming  them,  and  was  also 
terrified  lest  what  she  had  told  had  been  overheard.  Emily,  whose 
mind  was  deeply  impressed  by  the  chief  circumstance  of  An- 
nette's relation,  was  unwilling  to  be  left  alone,  in  the  present 
state  of  her  spirits;  but,  to  avoid  offending  Madame  Montoni, 
and  betraying  her  own  weakness,  she  struggled  to  overcome 
the  illusions  of  fear,  and  dismissed  Annette  for  the  night.  .  .  . 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS 
THE  MONK 
1795 

[This  romance,  the  most  famous  of  the  "tales  of  terror,"  was  written 
partly  under  the  inflnrnrr  of  Mrs.  Raddiffe's  Udalpko  (see  above),  though 
the  story  was  taken  from  that  of  Santon  Barstsa  in  The  Guardian  (No. 
r+S).  It  waspahfehrd  when  the  author  was  twenty  years  old.  Aprosecu- 
tKm  was  began,  on  the  ground  that  certain  passages  were  immoral,  and  in 
*  second  ffffrw"  ffc«y  ^"t^qr  fppngtA  t *•**"  The  extract  here  reprinted 
is  the  conduskm  of  the  tale,  and  exemplifies  in  particular  both  Lewis's 
CnrnjiM-gg  for  the  «F«JM_'T  •Mim.*!  and  his  use  of  the  details  of  physical 
honor.] 

AMBEOSIO,  rather  dead  than  alive,  was  left  alone  in  his 
dungeon.  .  .  .  He  looked  forward  to  the  morrow  with  despair, 
and  his  terrors  increased  with  the  approach  of  midnight.  Some- 
times he  was  buried  in  gloomy  silence;  at  others  he  raved  with 
delirious  passion,  wrung  his  hands,  and  cursed  the  hour  when 
be  first  beheld  the  tight.  In  one  of  these  moments  his  eye  rested 
upon  Matilda's  mysterious  gift.  His  transports  of  rage  were  in- 
stantly suspended.  He  looked  earnestly  at  the  book;  he  took  it 
up.  but  immediately  threw  it  from  him  with  horror.  He  walked 
rapidly  up  and  down  his  dungeon  —  then  stopped,  and  again 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  spot  where  the  book  had  fallen.  He  re- 
flected that  here  at  least  was  a  resource  from  the  fate  which  he 
dreaded.  He  stooped,  and  took  it  up  a  second  time.  He  remained 
for  some  time  trembling  and  irresolute;  he  longed  to  try  the 
charm,  yet  feared  its  consequences.  The  recollection  of  his  sen- 
tence at  length  fixed  his  indecision.  He  opened  the  volume;  but 
his  agitation  was  so  great  that  he  at  first  sought  in  vain  for  the 
page  mentioned  by  Matilda.  Ashamed  of  himself,  he  called  all 
his  courage  to  his  aid.  He  turned  to  the  seventh  leaf;  he  began 
to  read  it  aloud;  but  his  eyes  frequently  wandered  from  the 
book,  while  he  anxiously  cast  them  round  in  search  of  the  spirit 
whom  he  wished  yet  dreaded  to  behold.  Still  he  persisted  in 
his  design;  and  with  a  voice  unassured,  and  frequent  interrup- 


THE  MONK  685 

turns,  he  contrived  to  finish  the  four  first  lines  of  the  page. 
They  were  in  a  language  whose  import  was  totally  unknown  to 
him. 

Scarce  had  he  pronounced  the  last  word,  when  the  effects  of 
the  charm  were  evident.  A  loud  burst  of  thunder  was  heard,  the 
prison  shook  to  its  very  foundations,  a  blaze  of  lightning  flashed 
through  the  cell,  and  in  the  next  moment,  borne  upon  sulphur- 
ous whirlwinds,  Lucifer  stood  before  him  a  second  time.  But  he 
came  not  as  when,  at  Matilda's  summons,  he  borrowed  the  ser- 
aph's form  to  deceive  Ambrosio.  He  appeared  in  all  that  ugli- 
ness which  since  his  fall  from  heaven  had  been  his  portion.  His 
blasted  limbs  still  bore  marks  of  the  Almighty's  thunder.  A 
swarthy  darkness  spread  itself  over  his  gigantic  form;  his  hands 
and  feet  were  armed  with  long  talons.  Fury  glared  in  his  eyes, 
which  might  have  struck  the  bravest  heart  with  terror.  Over 
his  huge  shoulders  waved  two  enormous  sable  wings,  and  his 
hair  was  supplied  by  living  snakes,  which  twined  themselves 
round  his  brows  with  frightful  hissings;-  In  one  hand  he  held  a 
roll  of  parchment,  and  in  the  other  an  iron  pen.  Still  the  light- 
ning flashed  around  him,  and  the  thunder  with  repeated  bursts 
seemed  to  announce  the  dissolution  of  Nature. 

Terrified  at  an  apparition  so  different  from  what  he  had  ex- 
pected, Ambrosio  remained  gazing  upon  the  fiend,  deprived  of 
the  power  of  utterance.  The  thunder  had  ceased  to  roll;  uni- 
versal silence  reigned  through  the  dungeon. 

"For  what  am  I  summoned  hither?"  said  the  demon,  in  & 
voice  which  sulphurous  fogs  had  damped  to  hoarseness. 

At  the  sound  Mature  seemed  to  tremble.  A  violent  earth- 
quake rocked  the  ground,  accompanied  by  a  fresh  burst  of  thun- 
der, louder  and  more  appalling  than  the  first. 

Ambrosio  was  long  unable  to  answer  the  demon's  demand.  "I 
am  condemned  to  die,"  he  said  with  a  faint  voice,  his  blood  run- 
ning cold  while  he  gazed  upon  his  dreadful  visitor.  "Save  me! 
bear  me  from  hence!" 

"Shall  the  reward  of  my  services  be  paid  me?  Dare  you  em- 
brace my  cause?  Will  you  be  mine,  body  and  soul?  Are  you  pre- 
pared to  renounce  Him  who  made  you,  and  Him  who  died  for 
you?  Answer  but  Yes,  and  Lucifer  is  your  slave," 

"  Will  no  less  price  content  you?  Can  nothing  satisfy  you  but 
my  eternal  ruin?  Spirit,  you  ask  too  much-  Yet  convey  me  from 


686  MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS 

this  dungeon!  Be  my  servant  for  one  hour,  and  I  will  be  yours 
for  a  thousand  years.  Will  not  this  offer  suffice?  " 

"It  will  not.  I  must  have  your  soul;  must  have  it  mine,  and 
mine  forever." 

"Insatiate  demon!  I  will  not  doom  myself  to  endless  tor- 
ments. I  will  not  give  up  my  hopes  of  being  one  day  pardoned." 

"You  will  not?  On  what  chimera  rest,  then,  your  hopes? 
Short-sighted  mortal !  Miserable  wretch !  Are  you  not  guilty? 
Are  you  not  infamous  in  the  eyes  of  men  and  angels?  Can  such 
enormous  sins  be  forgiven?  Hope  you  to  escape  my  power? 
Your  fate  is  already  pronounced.  The  Eternal  has  abandoned 
you.  Mine  you  are  marked  in  the  book  of  destiny,  and  mine  you 
must  and  shall  be." 

"Fiend,  'tis  false!  Infinite  is  the  Almighty's  mercy,  and  the 
penitent  shall  meet  His  forgiveness.  My  crimes  are  monstrous, 
but  I  will  not  despair  of  pardon.  Haply,  when  they  have  re- 
ceived due  chastisement  — 

"  Chastisement?  Was  purgatory  meant  for  guilt  like  yours? 
Hope  you  that  your  offenses  shall  be  bought  off  by  prayers  of 
superstitious  dotards  and  droning  monks?  Ambrosio!  be  wise. 
Mine  you  must  be.  You  are  doomed  to  flames,  but  may  shun 
them  for  the  present.  Sign  this  parchment;  I  will  bear  you  from 
hence,  and  you  may  pass  your  remaining  years  in  bliss  and 
liberty.  Enjoy  your  existence.  Indulge  in  every  pleasure  to 
which  appetite  may  lead  you.  But  from  the  moment  that  it 
quits  your  body,  remember  that  your  soul  belongs  to  me,  and 
that  I  will  not  be  defrauded  of  my  right." 

The  monk  was  silent,  but  his  looks  declared  that  the  tempter's 
words  were  not  thrown  away.  He  reflected  on  the  conditions 
proposed  with  horror.  On  the  other  hand,  he  believed  himself 
doomed  to  perdition,  and  that,  by  refusing  the  demon's  succor, 
he  only  hastened  tortures  which  he  could  never  escape.  The 
fiend  saw  that  his  resolution  was  shaken.  He  renewed  his  in- 
stances, and  endeavored  to  fix  the  abbot's  indecision.  He  de- 
scribed the  agonies  of  death  in  the  most  terrific  colors,  and  he 
worked  so  powerfully  upon  Ambrosio's  despair  and  fears  that  he 
prevailed  upon  him  to  receive  the  parchment.  He  then  struck 
the  iron  pen  which  he  held  into  a  vein  of  the  monk's  left  hand. 
It  pierced  deep,  and  was  instantly  filled  with  blood ;  yet  Ambro- 
sio felt  no  pain  from  the  wound.  The  pen  was  put  into  his  hand; 


THE   MONK  687 

it  trembled.  The  wretch  placed  the  parchment  on  the  table  be- 
fore him,  and  prepared  to  sign  it.  Suddenly  he  held  his  hand; 
he  started  away  hastily,  and  threw  the  pen  upon  the  table. 

"What  am  I  doing?  "he  cried.  Then,  turning  to  the  fiend  with 
a  desperate  air,  "Leave  me!  Begone!  I  will  not  sign  the  parch- 
ment." 

"Fool!"  exclaimed  the  disappointed  demon,  darting  looks  so 
furious  as  penetrated  the  friar's  soul  with  horror.  "Thus  am  I 
trifled  with?  Go,  then!  Rave  in  agony,  expire  in  tortures,  and 
then  learn  the  extent  of  the  Eternal's  mercy!  But  beware  how 
you  make  me  again  your  mock !  Call  me  no  more,  till  resolved  to 
iccept  my  offers.  Summon  me  a  second  time  to  dismiss  me  thus 
idly,  and  these  talons  shall  rend  you  into  a  thousand  pieces. 
Speak  yet  again:  will  you  sign  the  parchment?" 

"I  will  not.  Leave  me!  Away!" 

Instantly  the  thunder  was  heard  to  roll  horribly;  once  more 
the  earth  trembled  with  violence;  the  dungeon  resounded  with 
loud  shrieks,  and  the  demon  fled  with  blasphemy  and  curses. 

At  first  the  monk  rejoiced  at  having  resisted  the  seducer's  arts, 
and  obtained  a  triumph  over  mankind's  enemy;  but  as  the  hour 
of  punishment  drew  near,  his  former  terrors  revived  in  his  heart. 
Their  momentary  repose  seemed  to  have  given  them  fresh  vigor. 
The  nearer  that  the  time  approached,  the  more  did  he  dread 
appearing  before  the  throne  of  God.  He  shuddered  to  think  how 
soon  he  must  be  plunged  into  eternity  —  how  soon  meet  the 
eyes  of  his  Creator,  whom  he  had  so  grievously  offended.  The 
bell  announced  midnight.  As  he  listened  for  the  first  stroke,  the 
blood  ceased  to  circulate  in  the  abbot's  veins.  He  heard  death 
and  torture  murmured  in  each  succeeding  sound.  He  expected 
to  see  the  archers  entering  his  prison;  and,  as  the  bell  forbore  to 
toll,  he  seized  the  magic  volume  in  a  fit  of  despair.  He  opened 
it,  turned  hastily  to  the  seventh  page,  and,  as  if  fearing  to  al- 
low himself  a  moment's  thought,  ran  over  the  fatal  lines  with 
rapidity. 

Accompanied  by  his  former  terrors,  Lucifer  again  stood  before 
the  trembler. 

"You  have  summoned  me,"  said  the  fiend.  "Are  you  deter- 
mined to  be  wise?  Will  you  accept  rny  conditions?  You  know 
them  already.  Renounce  your  claim  to  salvation,  make  over  to 
me  your  soul,  and  I  bear  you  from  this  dungeon  instantly.  Yet 


688  MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS 

is  it  time.  Resolve,  or  it  will  be  too  late.  Will  you  sign  the 
parchment?" 

"  I  must  —  Fate  urges  me  —  I  accept  your  conditions." 

"  Sign  the  parchment,"  replied  the  demon,  in  an  exulting  tone. 

The  contract  and  the  bloody  pen  still  lay  upon  the  table.  Am- 
brosio  drew  near  it.  He  prepared  to  sign  his  name.  A  moment's 
reflection  made  him  hesitate. 

"Hark!"  cried  the  tempter.  "They  come.  Be  quick!  Sign 
the  parchment,  and  I  bear  you  from  hence  this  moment." 

In  effect,  the  archers  were  heard  approaching,  appointed  to 
lead  Ambrosio  to  the  stake.  The  sound  encouraged  the  monk  in 
his  resolution. 

"What  is  the  import  of  this  writing?"  said  he. 

"It  makes  your  soul  over  tome  forever,  and  without  reserve." 

"What  am  I  to  receive  in  exchange?" 

"My  protection,  and  release  from  this  dungeon.  Sign  it,  and 
this  instant  I  bear  you  away." 

Ambrosio  took  up  the  pen.  He  set  it  to  the  parchment.  Again 
his  courage  failed  him.  He  felt  a  pang  of  terror  at  his  heart,  and 
once  more  threw  the  pen  upon  the  table. 

"Weak  and  puerile!"  cried  the  exasperated  fiend.  "Away 
with  this  folly!  Sign  the  writing  this  instant,  or  I  sacrifice  you 
to  my  rage." 

At  this  moment  the  bolt  of  the  outward  door  was  drawn  back. 
The  prisoner  heard  the  rattling  of  chains;  the  heavy  bar  fell;  the 
archers  were  on  the  point  of  entering.  Worked  up  to  frenzy  by 
the  urgent  danger,  shrinking  from  the  approach  of  death,  terri- 
fied by  the  demon's  threats,  and  seeing  no  other  means  to  escape 
destruction,  the  wretched  monk  complied.  He  signed  the  fatal 
contract,  and  gave  it  hastily  into  the  evil  spirit's  hands,  whose 
eyes,  as  he  received  the  gift,  glared  with  malicious  rapture. 

"Take  it!"  said  the  God-abandoned.  "Now  then  save  me! 
Snatch  me  from  hence!" 

"Hold!  Do  you  freely  and  absolutely  renounce  your  Creator 
and  His  Son?" 

"I  do!  I  do!" 

"  Do  you  make  over  your  soul  to  me  forever?  " 

"Forever!" 

"Without  reserve  or  subterfuge?  without  future  appeal  to 
the  divine  mercy?" 

\ 


THE  MONK  689 

The  last  chain  fell  from  the  door  of  the  prison.  The  key  was 
heard  turning  in  the  lock.  Already  the  iron  door  grated  heavily 
upon  its  rusty  hinges  — 

"I  am  yours  forever,  and  irrevocably!"  cried  the  monk,  wild 
with  terror.  '•'  I  abandon  all  claim  to  salvation.  I  own  no  power 
but  yours.  Hark!  hark!  they  come!  Oh,  save  me!  bear  me 
away! " 

"I  have  triumphed!  You  are  mine  past  reprieve, and  I  fulfill 
my  promise." 

While  he  spoke,  the  door  unclosed.  Instantly  the  demon 
grasped  one  of  Ambrosio's  arms,  spread  his  broad  pinions,  and 
sprang  with  him  into  the  air.  The  roof  opened  as  they  soared 
upwards,  and  closed  again  when  they  had  quitted  the  dun- 
geon. .  .  . 

Though  rescued  from  the  Inquisition,  Ambrosio  as  yet  was 
insensible  of  the  blessings  of  liberty.  The  damning  contract 
weighed  heavy  upon  his  mind ;  and  the  scenes  in  which  he  had 
been  a  principal  actor  had  left  behind  them  such  impressions  as 
rendered  his  heart  the  seat  of  anarchy  and  confusion.  The  ob- 
jects now  before  his  eyes,  and  which  the  full  moon  sailing  through 
clouds  permitted  him  to  examine,  were  ill  calculated  to  inspire 
that  calm  of  which  he  stood  so  much  in  need.  The  disorder  of 
his  imagination  was  increased  by  the  wildness  of  the  surround- 
ing scenery;  by  the  gloomy  caverns  and  steep  rocks,  rising  above 
each  other,  and  dividing  the  passing  clouds;  solitary  clusters  of 
trees  scattered  here  and  there,  among  whose  thick-twined 
branches  the  wind  of  night  sighed  hoarsely  and  mournfully;  the 
shrill  cry  of  mountain  eagles,  who  had  built  their  nests  among 
these  lonely  deserts ;  the  stunning  roar  of  torrents,  as  swelled  by 
late  rains  they  rushed  violently  down  tremendous  precipices; 
and  the  dark  waters  of  a  silent  sluggish  stream,  which  faintly 
reflected  the  moonbeams,  and  bathed  the  rock's  base  on  which 
Ambrosio  stood.  The  abbot  cast  round  him  a  look  of  terror. 
His  infernal  conductor  was  still  by  his  side,  and  eyed  him  with 
a  look  of  mingled  malice,  exultation,  and  contempt.  .  .  .  Am- 
brosio could  not  sustain  his  glance.  He  turned  away  his  eyes, 
while  thus  spoke  the  demon : 

"  I  have  him  then  in  my  power !  This  model  of  piety !  This  be- 
ing without  reproach !  This  mortal  who  placed  his  puny  virtues 
on  a  level  with  those  of  angels.  He  is  mine !  irrevocably,  eter- 


690  MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS 

nally  mine !  Companions  of  my  sufferings !  denizens  of  hell !  how 
grateful  will  be  my  present!  ...  I  burn  to  possess  my  right, 
and  alive  you  quit  not  these  mountains." 

During  the  demon's  speech  Ambrosio  had  been  stupefied  by 
terror  and  surprise.  This  last  declaration  aroused  him. 

"Not  quit  these  mountains  alive!"  he  exclaimed.  "Perfidi- 
ous, what  mean  you?  Have  you  forgotten  our  contract?  " 

The  fiend  answered  by  a  malicious  laugh. 

"  Our  contract?  Have  I  not  performed  my  part?  What  more 
did  I  promise  than  to  save  you  from  your  prison?  Have  I  not 
done  so?  Are  you  not  safe  from  the  Inquisition  —  safe  from  all 
but  me?  Fool  that  you  were  to  confide  yourself  to  a  devil !  Why 
did  you  not  stipulate  for  life,  and  power,  and  pleasure?  Then 
all  would  have  been  granted;  now  your  reflections  come  too 
late.  Miscreant,  prepare  for  death;  you  have  not  many  hours 
to  live!" 

On  hearing  this  sentence,  dreadful  were  the  feelings  of  the 
devoted  wretch !  He  sank  upon  his  knees,  and  raised  his  hands 
toward  heaven.  The  fiend  read  his  intention,  and  prevented  it. 

"What!"  he  cried,  darting  at  him  a  look  of  fury.  "Dare  you 
still  implore  the  Eternal's  mercy?  Would  you  feign  penitence, 
and  again  act  an  hypocrite's  part?  Villain,  resign  your  hopes  of 
pardon.  Thus  I  secure  my  prey!" 

As  he  said  this,  darting  his  talons  into  the  monk's  shaven 
crown,  he  sprang  with  him  from  the  rock.  The  caves  and  moun- 
tains rang  with  Ambrosio's  shrieks.  The  demon  continued  to 
soar  aloft,  till,  reaching  a  dreadful  height,  he  released  the  suf- 
ferer. Headlong  fell  the  monk  through  the  airy  waste.  The 
sharp  point  of  a  rock  received  him,  and  he  rolled  from  preci- 
pice to  precipice,  till,  bruised  and  mangled,  he  rested  on  the 
river's  banks.  Instantly  a  violent  storm  arose;  the  winds  in  fury 
rent  up  rocks  and  forests;  the  sky  was  now  black  with  clouds, 
now  sheeted  with  fire;  the  rain  fell  in  torrents;  it  swelled  the 
stream;  the  waves  overflowed  their  banks.  They  reached  the 
spot  where  Ambrosio  lay,  and,  when  they  abated,  carried  with 
them  into  the  river  the  corse  of  the  despairing  monk. 


THE  ANTI-JACOBIN 
1798 

[This  periodical,  a  protest  against  "the  spirit  of  1789,"  appeared  weekly 
from  September,  1797,  to  July,  1798.  The  chief  contributors  were  George 
Canning,  then  under-secretary  of  state,  and  Hookham  Frere;  to  Canning 
most  of  the  successful  satirical  articles  are  attributed.  (This  weekly  Anti- 
Jacobin  must  not  be  confused  with  a  monthly  which  adopted  its  name 
after  it  had  ceased  to  appear,  and  ran  till  1821.)  The  Rovers,  the  drama 
described  in  the  following  extracts  (of  which  Acts  i,  n,  and  iv  were  printed 
in  full)  is  at  once  a  burlesque  of  the  radical  philosophy  of  the  school  of 
Godwin,  and  of  the  sentimentalism  and  doubtful  ethics  of  the  new  German 
romantic  drama,  which  at  this  period  was  influential  in  England.  In  partic- 
ular, Goethe's  Stella,  Schiller's  The  Robbers,  and  Kotzebue's  The  Stranger 
are  ridiculed  by  imitations  of  detail.  The  extracts  are  from  Numbers  xxx 
and  xxxi.] 

OUR  ingenious  correspondent,  Mr.  Higgins,  has  not  been  idle. 
The  deserved  popularity  of  the  extracts  which  we  have  been  en- 
abled to  give  from  his  two  didactic  poems,  The  Progress  of  Man 
and  The  Loves  of  the  Triangles,  has  obtained  for  us  the  communi- 
cation of  several  other  works  which  he  has  in  hand,  all  framed 
upon  the  same  principle  and  directed  to  the  same  end.  The  pro- 
pagation  of  the  "new  system  of  philosophy"  forms,  as  he  has 
himself  candidly  avowed  to  us,  the  main  object  of  all  his  writ- 
ings. A  system  comprehending  not  politics  only,  and  religion, 
but  morals  and  manners,  and  generally  whatever  goes  to  the 
composition  or  holding  together  of  human  society;  in  all  of  which 
a  total  change  and  revolution  is  absolutely  necessary  (as  he  con- 
tends) for  the  advancement  of  our  common  nature  to  its  true 
dignity,  and  to  the  summit  of  that  perfection  which  the  com- 
bination of  matter  called  Man  is  by  its  innate  energies  capable 
of  attaining. 

Of  this  system,  while  the  sublimer  and  more  scientific  branches 
are  to  be  taught  by  the  splendid  and  striking  medium  of  didactic 
poetry,  or  ratiocination  in  rhyme,  illustrated  with  such  paint- 
ings and  portraitures  of  essences  and  their  attributes  as  may  lay 
hold  of  the  imagination  while  they  perplex  the  judgment,  the 
more  ordinary  parts,  such  as  relate  to  the  conduct  of  common 


692  THE  ANTI-JACOBIN 

life,  and  the  regulation  of  the  social  feelings,  are  naturally  the 
subject  of  a  less  elevated  style  of  writing,  —  of  a  style  which 
speaks  to  the  eye  as  well  as  to  the  ear,  —  in  short,  of  dramatic 
poetry  and  scenic  representation. 

"With  this  view,"  says  Mr.  Higgins  (for  we  love  to  quote  the 
very  words  of  this  extraordinary  and  indefatigable  writer) ,  in 
a  letter  dated  from  his  study  in  St.  Mary  Axe,  the  window  of 
which  looks  upon  the  parish  pump,  —  "with  this  view  I  have 
turned  my  thoughts  more  particularly  to  the  German  stage,  and 
have  composed,  in  imitation  of  the  most  popular  pieces  of  that 
country,  which  have  already  met  with  so  general  reception  and 
admiration  in  this,  a  play;  which,  if  it  has  a  proper  run,  will,  I 
think,  do  much  to  unhinge  the  present  notions  of  men  with  re- 
gard to  the  obligations  of  civil  society,  and  to  substitute,  in  lieu 
of  a  sober  contentment  and  regular  discharge  of  the  duties  in- 
cident to  each  man's  particular  situation,  a  wild  desire  of  unde- 
finable  latitude  and  extravagance;  an  aspiration  after  shapeless 
somethings,  that  can  neither  be  described  nor  understood,  —  a 
contemptuous  disgust  at  all  that  is,  and  a  persuasion  that  no- 
thing is  as  it  ought  to  be;  —  to  operate,  in  short,  a  general  dis- 
charge of  every  man  (in  his  own  estimation)  from  everything 
that  laws,  divine  or  human,  that  local  customs,  immemorial 
habits,  and  multiplied  examples,  impose  upon  him ;  and  to  set 
them  about  doing  what  they  like,  where  they  like,  when  they 
like,  and  how  they  like,  without  reference  to  any  law  but  their 
own  will,  or  to  any  consideration  of  how  others  may  be  affected 
by  their  conduct. 

"When  this  is  done,  my  dear  sir,"  continues  Mr.  H.  (for  he 
writes  very  confidentially),  "you  see  that  a  great  step  is  gained 
towards  the  dissolution  of  the  frame  of  every  existing  commu- 
nity. I  say  nothing  of  governments,  as  their  fall  is  of  course  im- 
plicated in  that  of  the  social  system,  and  you  have  long  known 
that  I  hold  every  government  (that  acts  by  coercion  and  restric- 
tion —  by  laws  made  by  the  few  to  bind  the  many)  as  a  malum 
in  se,  —  an  evil  to  be  eradicated,  a  nuisance  to  be  abated,  by 
force,  if  force  be  practicable,  —  if  not,  by  the  artillery  of  rea- 
son, —  by  pamphlets,  speeches,  toasts  at  club  dinners,  and  — 
though  last,  not  least  —  didactic  poems. 

"  But  where  would  be  the  advantage  of  the  destruction  of  this 
or  that  government,  if  the  form  of  society  itself  were  to  be  suf- 


THE  ANTI-JACOBIN  693 

fered  to  continue  such  as  that  another  must  necessarily  arise  out 
of  it,  and  over  it?  Society,  my  dear  sir,  in  its  present  state,  is  a 
hydra.  Cut  off  one  head,  —  another  presently  sprouts  out,  and 
your  labor  is  to  begin  again.  At  best,  you  can  only  hope  to  find 
it  a  polypus,  —  where,  by  cutting  off  the  head,  you  are  some- 
times fortunate  enough  to  find  a  tail  (which  answers  all  the  same 
purposes)  spring  up  in  its  place.  This,  we  know,  has  been  the 
case  in  France,  —  the  only  country  in  which  the  great  experi- 
ment of  regeneration  has  been  tried  with  anything  like  a  fair 
chance  of  success. 

"  Destroy  the  frame  of  society,  —  decompose  its  parts, — and 
set  the  elements  fighting  one  against  another,  insulated  and  in- 
dividual, every  man  for  himself  (stripped  of  prejudice,  of  big- 
otry, and  of  feeling  for  others)  against  the  remainder  of  his 
species,  —  and  there  is  then  some  hope  of  a  totally  new  order 
of  things, — of  a  radical  reform  in  the  present  corrupt  system  of 
the  world. 

"The  German  theatre  appears  to  proceed  on  this  judicious 
plan.  And  I  have  endeavored  to  contribute  my  mite  towards 
extending  its  effect  and  its  popularity.  There  is  one  obvious  ad- 
vantage attending  this  mode  of  teaching,  —  that  it  can  propor- 
tion the  infractions  of  law,  religion,  and  morality,  which  it  re- 
commends, to  the  capacity  of  a  reader  or  spectator.  If  you  tell 
a  student,  or  an  apprentice,  or  a  merchant's  clerk,  of  the  virtue 
of  a  Brutus,  of  the  splendor  of  a  Lafayette,  you  may  excite  his 
desire  to  be  equally  conspicuous ;  but  how  is  he  to  set  about  it? 
Where  is  he  to  find  the  tyrant  to  murder?  How  is  he  to  provide 
the  monarch  to  be  imprisoned,  and  the  national  guards  to  be 
reviewed  on  a  white  horse?  But  paint  the  beauties  of  forgery  to 
him  in  glowing  colors,  —  show  him  that  the  presumption  of  vir- 
tue is  in  favor  of  rapine,  and  occasional  murder  on  the  highway, 
— and  he  presently  understands  you.  The  highway  is  at  hand 
—  the  till  or  the  counter  is  within  reach.  These  haberdashers' 
heroics  '  come  home  to  the  business  and  the  bosoms  of  men.' 
And  you  may  readily  make  ten  footpads,  where  you  would  not 
have  materials  nor  opportunity  for  a  single  tyrannicide. 

"The  subject  of  the  piece  which  I  herewith  transmit  to  you, 
is  taken  from  common  or  middling  life;  and  its  merit  is  that  of 
teaching  the  most  lofty  truths  in  the  most  humble  style,  and  de- 
ducing them  from  the  most  ordinary  occurrences.  Its  moral  is 


694  THE  ANTI-JACOBIN 

obvious  and  easy,  and  is  one  frequently  inculcated  by  the  Ger- 
man dramas  which  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  see;  being  no 
other  than '  the  reciprocal  duties  of  one  or  more  husbands  to  one 
or  more  wives/  and  'to  the  children  who  may  happen  to  arise 
out  of  this  complicated  and  endearing  connection.'  The  plot, 
indeed,  is  formed  by  the  combination  of  the  plots  of  two  of  the 
most  popular  of  these  plays  (in  the  same  way  as  Terence  was 
wont  to  combine  two  stories  of  Menander's).  The  characters 
are  such  as  the  admirers  of  these  plays  will  recognize  for  their 
familiar  acquaintances.  There  are  the  usual  ingredients  of  im- 
prisonments, post-houses  and  horns,  and  appeals  to  angels  and 
devils.  I  have  omitted  only  the  swearing,  to  which  English  ears 
are  not  yet  sufficiently  accustomed."  .  .  . 

PLOT 

Rogero,  son  of  the  late  minister  of  the  Count  of  Saxe-Weimar,  having, 
while  he  was  at  college,  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  Matilda  Pottingen, 
daughter  of  his  tutor,  Doctor  Engelbertus  Pottingen,  Professor  of  Civil 
Law,  and  Matilda  evidently  returning  his  passion,  the  Doctor,  to  prevent 
ill  consequences,  sends  his  daughter  on  a  visit  to  her  aunt  in  Wetteravia, 
where  she  becomes  acquainted  with  Casimere,  a  Polish  officer,  who  hap- 
pens to  be  quartered  near  her  aunt's,  and  has  several  children  by  him. 

Roderic,  Count  of  Saxe-Weimar,  a  prince  of  a  tyrannical  and  licentious 
disposition,  has  for  his  Prime  Minister  and  favorite,  Caspar,  a  crafty  vil- 
lain, who  has  risen  to  his  post  by  first  ruining  and  then  putting  to  death 
Rogero's  father.  Caspar,  apprehensive  of  the  power  and  popularity  which 
the  young  Rogero  may  enjoy  at  his  return  to  court,  seizes  the  occasion  of 
his  intrigue  with  Matilda  (of  which  he  is  apprised  officially  by  Doctor 
Pottingen)  to  procure  from  his  master  an  order  for  the  recall  of  Rogero 
from  college,  and  for  committing  him  to  the  care  of  the  Prior  of  the  Abbey 
of  Quedlinburgh,  a  priest  rapacious,  savage,  and  sensual,  and  devoted  to 
Caspar's  interests,  —  sending  at  the  same  time  private  orders  to  the 
Prior  to  confine  him  in  a  dungeon. 

Here  Rogero  languishes  many  years.  His  daily  sustenance  is  adminis- 
tered to  him  through  a  grated  opening  at  the  top  of  the  cavern,  by  the 
landlady  of  the  Golden  Eagle  at  Weimar,  with  whom  Caspar  contracts,  in 
the  Prince's  name,  for  his  supper,  —  intending,  and  more  than  once  en- 
deavoring, to  corrupt  the  waiter  to  mingle  poison  with  the  food,  in  order 
that  he  may  get  rid  of  Rogero  forever. 

In  the  mean  time  Casimere,  having  been  called  away  from  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Matilda's  residence  to  other  quarters,  becomes  enamored  of, 
and  marries  Cecilia,  by  whom  he  has  a  family,  and  whom  he  likewise  de- 
serts after  a  few  years,  on  pretence  of  business  which  calls  him  to  Kam- 
schatka. 

Doctor  Pottingen,  now  grown  old  and  infirm,  and  feeling  the  want  of 


THE  ANTI-JACOBIN  695 

his  daughter's  society,  sends  young  Pottingen  in  search  of  her,  with  strict 
injunctions  not  to  return  without  her,  and  to  bring  with  her  either  her 
present  lover  Casimere,  or  —  should  that  not  be  possible  —  Rogero  him- 
self, if  he  can  find  him;  the  Doctor  having  set  his  heart  upon  seeing  his 
children  comfortably  settled  before  his  death.  Matilda,  about  the  same 
period,  quits  her  aunt's  in  search  of  Casimere;  and  Cecilia,  having  been 
advertised  —  by  an  anonymous  letter  —  of  the  falsehood  of  his  Kam- 
schatkan  journey,  sets  out  in  the  post-wagon  on  a  similar  pursuit. 

It  is  at  this  point  of  time  the  play  opens,  with  the  accidental  meeting  of 
Cecilia  and  Matilda  at  the  inn  at  Weimar.  Casimere  arrives  there  soon 
after,  and  falls  in  first  with  Matilda,  and  then  with  Cecilia.  Successive 
tdaircissements  take  place,  and  an  arrangement  is  finally  made  by  which 
the  two  ladies  are  to  live  jointly  with  Casimere. 

Young  Pottingen,  wearied  with  a  few  weeks'  search,  during  which  he 
has  not  been  able  to  find  either  of  the  objects  of  it,  resolves  to  stop  at 
Weimar  and  wait  events  there.  It  so  happens  that  he  takes  up  his  lodging 
in  the  same  house  with  Puddincrantz  and  Beefinstern,  two  English  noble- 
men, whom  the  tyranny  of  King  John  has  obliged  to  fly  from  their  coun- 
try, and  who,  after  wandering  about  the  continent  for  some  time,  have 
fixed  their  residence  at  Weimar. 

The  news  of  the  signature  of  Magna  Charta  arriving,  determines  Pud- 
dincrantz and  Beefinstern  to  return  to  England.  Young  Pottingen  opens 
his  case  to  them,  and  entreats  them  to  stay  to  assist  him  in  the  object  of 
his  search.  This  they  refuse;  but,  coming  to  the  inn  where  they  are  to  set 
off  for  Hamburg,  they  meet  Casimere,  from  whom  they  had  both  received 
many  civilities  in  Poland. 

Casimere,  by  this  time,  tired  of  his  "Double  Arrangement,"  and  having 
learnt  from  the  waiter  that  Rogero  is  confined  in  the  vaults  of  the  neigh- 
boring Abbey  for  love,  he  resolves  to  attempt  his  rescue,  and  to  make  over 
Matilda  to  him  as  the  price  of  his  deliverance.  He  communicates  his 
scheme  to  Puddingfield  and  Beefington,  who  agree  to  assist  him;  as  also 
does  young  Pottingen.  The  waiter  of  the  inn,  proving  to  be  a  Knight 
Templar  in  disguise,  is  appointed  leader  of  the  expedition.  A  band  of 
troubadours,  who  happen  to  be  returning  from  the  Crusades,  and  a  com- 
pany of  Austrian  and  Prussian  grenadiers  returning  from  the  Seven  Years' 
War,  are  engaged  as  troops. 

The  attack  on  the  Abbey  is  made  with  great  success.  The  Count  of 
Weimar  and  Caspar,  who  are  feasting  with  the  Prior,  are  seized  and  be- 
headed in  the  refectory.  The  Prior  is  thrown  into  the  dungeon  from  which 
Rogero  is  rescued.  Matilda  and  Cecilia  rush  in.  The  former  recognizes 
Rogero,  and  agrees  to  live  with  him.  The  children  are  produced  on  all 
sides,  and  young  Pottingen  is  commissioned  to  write  to  his  father,  the 
Doctor,  to  detail  the  joyful  events  which  have  taken  place,  and  to  invite 
him  to  Weimar  to  partake  of  the  general  felicity. 


APPENDIX 
THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN 

TRANSLATED   BY 

JAMES  MACPHERSON 
1760,  1762 

[The  Ossianic  "poems"  are  represented  in  an  Appendix,  as  not  being 
strictly  a  part  of  either  the  prose  or  the  poetry  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
They  were  published  by  Macpherson  as  translations:  first,  Fragments  of 
Ancient  Poetry,  collected  in  the  Highlands,  in  1760;  then  Fingal,  an  ancient 
epic  poem  in  six  books,  together  with  several  other  poems  composed  by  Ossian, 
the  son  of  Fingal,  in  1762;  lastly  Temora,  another  epic,  in  1763.  Their  gen- 
uineness was  early  suspected  (see  the  extracts  above  from  Gray's  Letters, 
page  328,  and  Boswell's  Johnson,  page  643),  and  the  exact  character  of 
the  writings  has  never  been  determined  with  precision.  It  is  now  gener- 
ally agreed,  however,  that  while  Macpherson  found  his  materials  in  Gaelic 
literature  the  arrangement  and  style  of  his  "  translations  "  were  largely  his 
own.  The  following  extracts  include  the  close  of  Carthon  (including  the 
famous  "Hymn  to  the  Sun"),  the  opening  of  Book  I  of  Fingal,  and  the 
greater  portion  of  The  Death  of  Cuthullin.] 

CARTHON 

.  .  .  FINGAL  was  sad  for  Carthon;  he  commanded  his  bards  to  mark 
the  day,  when  shadowy  autumn  returned;  and  often  did  they  mark 
the  day  and  sing  the  hero's  praise.  "  Who  comes  so  dark  from  ocean's 
roar,  like  autumn's  shadowy  cloud?  Death  is  trembling  in  his  hand! 
his  eyes  are  flames  of  fire!  Who  roars  along  dark  Lora's  heath?  Who 
but  Carthon,  king  of  swords!  The  people  fall!  See  how  he  strides, 
like  the  sullen  ghost  of  Morven !  But  there  he  lies,  a  goodly  oak  which 
sudden  blasts  overturned!  When  shalt  thou  rise,  Balclutha's  joy? 
When,  Carthon,  shalt  thou  arise?  Who  comes  so  dark  from  ocean's 
roar,  like  autumn's  shadowy  cloud?" 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards,  in  the  day  of  their  mourning. 
Ossian  often  joined  their  voice,  and  added  to  their  song.  "  My  soul 
has  been  mournful  for  Carthon;  he  fell  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  And 
thou,  O  Clessammor!  where  is  thy  dwelling  in  the  wind?  Has  the 
youth  forgot  his  wound?  Flies  he  on  clouds  with  thee?  I  feel  the  sun, 
O  Malvina!  Leave  me  to  my  rest.  Perhaps  they  may  come  to  my 
dreams;  I  think  I  hear  a  feeble  voice.  The  beam  of  heaven  delights 
to  shine  on  the  grave  of  Carthon ;  I  feel  it  warm  around !  O  thou  that 


698  JAMES  MACPHERSON 

rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  my  fathers!  Whence  are  thy 
beams,  O  sun !  thy  everlasting  light?  Thou  comest  forth  in  thy  awful 
beauty;  the  stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky;  the  moon,  cold  and  pale, 
sinks  in  the  western  wave.  But  thou  thyself  movest  alone;  who  can 
be  a  companion  of  thy  course?  The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall;  the 
mountains  themselves  decay  with  years ;  the  ocean  shrinks,  and  grows 
again;  the  moon  herself  is  lost  in  heaven.  But  thou  art  forever  the 
same,  rejoicing  in  the  brightness  of  thy  course.  When  the  world  is 
dark  with  tempests,  when  thunder  rolls  and  lightning  flies,  thou  look- 
est  in  thy  beauty  from  the  clouds,  and  laughest  at  the  storm.  But  to 
Ossian  thou  lookest  in  vain;  for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no  more, 
whether  thy  yellow  hair  flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or  thou  trem- 
blest  at  the  gates  of  the  West.  But  thou  art,  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a 
season;  thy  years  will  have  an  end.  Thou  shalt  sleep  in  the  clouds, 
careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning.  Exult,  then,  O  sun,  in  the 
strength  of  thy  youth!  Age  is  dark  and  unlovely;  it  is  like  the  glim- 
mering light  of  the  moon,  when  it  shines  through  broken  clouds,  and 
the  mist  is  on  the  hills;  the  blast  of  the  North  is  on  the  plain;  the 
traveler  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his  journey." 

FINGAL 

Cuthullin  sat  by  Tura's  wall,  by  the  tree  of  the  rustling  sound.  His 
spear  leaned  against  a  rock.  His  shield  lay  on  grass  by  his  side.  Amid 
his  thoughts  of  mighty  Carbar,  a  hero  slain  by  the  chief  in  war,  the 
scout  of  ocean  comes,  Moran  the  son  of  Fithil. 

"Arise! "  says  the  youth.  "  Cuthullin,  arise!  I  see  the  ships  of  the 
North!  Many,  chief  of  men,  are  the  foe.  Many  are  the  heroes  of  the 
sea-born  Swaran!" 

"  Moran,"  replied  the  blue-eyed  chief,  "  thou  ever  tremblest,  son 
of  Fithil !  Thy  fears  have  increased  the  foe.  It  is  Fingal,  king  of  des- 
erts, with  aid  to  green  Erin  of  streams." 

"  I  beheld  their  chief,"  says  Moran,  "  tall  as  a  glittering  rock.  His 
spear  is  a  blasted  pine;  his  shield  the  rising  moon.  He  sat  on  the 
shore!  like  a  cloud  of  mist  on  the  silent  hill!  Many,  chief  of  heroes! 
I  said,  many  are  our  hands  of  war.  Well  art  thou  named  the 
Mighty  Man,  but  many  mighty  men  are  seen  from  Tura's  windy 
walls. 

"He  spoke,  like  a  wave  on  a  rock:  Who  in  this  land  appears  like 
me  ?  Heroes  stand  not  in  my  presence;  they  fall  to  earth  from  my 
hand.  Who  can  meet  Swaran  in  fight  ?  Who  but  Fingal,  king  of 
Selma  of  storms?  Once  we  wrestled  on  Malmor ;  our  heels  overturned 
the  woods.  Rocks  fell  from  their  place;  rivulets,  changing  their 
course,  fled  murmuring  from  our  side.  Three  days  we  renewed  the 
strife;  heroes  stood  at  a  distance,  and  trembled.  On  the  fourth,  Fin- 
gal says  that  the  king  of  the  ocean  fell ;  but  Swaran  says  he  stood. 
Let  dark  Cuthullin  yield  to  him  that  is  strong  as  the  storms  of  this 
land!" 


POEMS   OF  OSSIAN  699 

"No!"  replied  the  blue-eyed  chief,  "I  never  yield  to  mortal  man! 
Dark  Cuthullin  shall  be  great  or  dead!  Go,  son  of  Fithil,  take  my 
spear.  Strike  the  sounding  shield  of  Semo.  It  hangs  at  Tura's  rust- 
ling gate.  The  sound  of  peace  is  not  in  its  voice!  My  heroes  shall 
hear  and  obey." 

He  went.  He  struck  the  bossy  shield.  The  hills,  the  rocks  reply. 
The  sound  spreads  along  the  wood;  deer  start  by  the  lake  of  roes. 
Curach  leaps  from  the  sounding  rock,  and  Connal  of  the  bloody  spear. 
Crugal's  breast  of  snow  beats  high.  The  son  of  Favi  leaves  the  dark- 
brown  hind.  "It  is  the  shield  of  war,"  said  Ronnor!  "The  spear  of 
Cuthullin,"  said  Lugar!  Son  of  the  sea,  put  on  thy  arms!  Calmar, 
lift  thy  sounding  steel !  Puno !  dreadful  hero,  arise !  Cairbar,  from  thy 
red  tree  of  Cromla!  Bend  thy  knee,  O  Eth!  descend  from  the  streams 
of  Lena.  Ca-olt,  stretch  thy  side  as  thou  movest  along  the  whistling 
heath  of  Mora;  thy  side  that  is  white  as  the  foam  of  the  troubled  sea, 
when  the  dark  winds  pour  it  on  rocky  Cuthon. 

Now  I  behold  the  chiefs  in  the  pride  of  their  former  deeds !  Their 
souls  are  kindled  at  the  battles  of  old,  at  the  actions  of  other  times. 
Their  eyes  are  flames  of  fire.  They  roll  in  search  of  the  foes  of  the 
land.  Their  mighty  hands  are  on  their  swords.  Lightning  pours  from 
their  sides  of  steel.  They  come  like  streams  from  the  mountains; 
each  rushes  roaring  from  his  hill.  Bright  are  the  chiefs  of  battle,  in 
the  armor  of  their  fathers.  Gloomy  and  dark  their  heroes  follow,  like 
the  gathering  of  the  rainy  clouds  behind  the  red  meteors  of  heaven. 
The  sounds  of  crashing  arms  ascend.  The  gray  dogs  howl  between. 
Unequal  bursts  the  song  of  battle.  Rocky  Cromla  echoes  round.  On 
Lena's  dusky  heath  they  stand,  like  mist  that  shades  the  hills  of  au- 
tumn; when  broken  and  dark  it  settles  high,  and  lifts  its  head  to  hea- 
ven. 

"Hail!"  said  Cuthullin,  "sons  of  the  narrow  vales!  Hail,  hunters 
of  the  deer!  Another  sport  is  drawing  near;  it  is  like  the  dark  rolling 
of  that  wave  on  the  coast.  Or  shall  we  fight,  ye  sons  of  war,  or  yield 
green  Erin  to  Lochlin?  O  Connal,  speak,  thou  first  of  men!  thou 
breaker  of  the  shields!  Thou  hast  often  fought  with  Lochlin;  wilt 
thou  lift  thy  father's  spear?" 

"Cuthullin,"  calm  the  chief  replied,  "the  spear  of  Connal  is  keen. 
It  delights  to  shine  in  battle,  to  mix  with  the  blood  of  thousands. 
But  though  my  hand  is  bent  on  fight,  my  heart  is  for  the  peace  of  Erin. 
Behold,  thou  first  in  Cormac's  war,  the  sable  fleet  of  Swaran.  His 
masts  are  many  on  our  coast,  like  reeds  in  the  Lake  of  Lego.  His 
ships  are  forests  clothed  with  mist,  when  the  trees  yield  by  turns  to 
the  squally  wind.  Many  are  his  chiefs  in  battle.  Connal  is  for  peace! 
Fingal  would  shun  his  arm,  the  first  of  mortal  men !  Fingal,  who  scat- 
ters the  mighty,  as  stormy  winds  the  heath,  when  streams  roar 
through  echoing  Cona,  and  night  settles  with  all  her  clouds  on  the 
hill." 

"Fly,  thou  man  of  peace!"  said  Calmar.  "Fly!"  said  the  son  of 
Matha.  "Go,  Connal,  to  thy  silent  hills,  where  the  spear  never 


700  JAMES  MACPHERSON 

brightens  in  war!  Pursue  the  dark-brown  deer  of  Cromla:  stop  with 
thine  arrows  the  bounding  roes  of  Lena.  But,  blue-eyed  son  of  Semo, 
Cuthullin,  ruler  of  the  field,  scatter  thou  the  sons  of  Lochlin !  roar 
through  the  ranks  of  their  pride.  Let  no  vessel  of  the  kingdom  of 
Snow  bound  on  the  dark-rolling  waves  of  Inistore.  Rise,  ye  dark 
winds  of  Erin,  rise !  Roar,  whirlwind  of  Lara  of  hinds !  Amid  the  tem- 
pest let  me  die,  torn,  in  a  cloud,  by  angry  ghosts  of  men;  amid  the 
tempest  let  Calmar  die,  if  ever  chase  was  sport  to  him,  so  much  as 
the  battle  of  shields!" 

"  Calmar,"  Connal  slow  replied, "  I  never  fled,  young  son  of  Matha ! 
I  was  swift  with  my  friends  in  fight;  but  small  is  the  fame  of  Connal. 
The  battle  was  won  in  my  presence;  the  valiant  overcame!  But,  son 
of  Semo,  hear  my  voice;  regard  the  ancient  throne  of  Cormac.  Give 
wealth  and  half  the  land  for  peace,  till  Fingal  shall  arrive  on  our 
coast.  Or,  if  war  be  thy  choice,  I  lift  the  sword  and  spear.  My  joy 
shall  be  in  the  midst  of  thousands;  my  sword  shall  lighten  through 
the  gloom  of  the  fight!" 

"Tome,"  Cuthullin  replies,  "pleasant  is  the  noise  of  arms!  pleas- 
ant as  the  thunder  of  heaven  before  the  shower  of  spring!  But  gather 
all  the  shining  tribes,  that  I  may  view  the  sons  of  war.  Let  them 
pass  along  the  heath,  bright  as  the  sunshine  before  a  storm,  when  the 
west  wind  collects  the  clouds,  and  Morven  echoes  over  all  her  oaks! 
But  where  are  my  friends  in  battle?  The  supporters  of  my  arm  in 
danger?  Where  art  thou,  white-bosomed  Cathba?  Where  is  that 
cloud  in  war,  Duchomar?  Hast  thou  left  me,  O  Fergus!  in  the  day  of 
the  storm?  Fergus,  first  in  our  joy  at  the  feast !  son  of  Rossa !  arm  of 
death!  comest  thou  like  a  roe  from  Malmor?  Like  a  hart  from  thy 
echoing  hills?  Hail,  thou  son  of  Rossa!  what  shades  the  soul  of 
war?" 

"Four  stones,"  replied  the  chief,  "  rise  on  the  grave  of  Cathba. 
These  hands  have  laid  in  earth  Duchomar,  that  cloud  in  war. 
Cathba,  son  of  Torman!  thou  wert  a  sunbeam  in  Erin.  And  thou,  O 
valiant  Duchomar!  a  mist  of  the  marshy  Lano,  when  it  moves  on 
the  plains  of  autumn,  bearing  the  death  of  thousands  along.  Morna, 
fairest  of  maids !  calm  is  thy  sleep  in  the  cave  of  the  rock.  Thou  hast 
fallen  in  darkness,  like  a  star  that  shoots  across  the  desert,  when  the 
traveler  is  alone  and  mourns  the  transient  beam." 

"  Say,"  said  Seno's  blue-eyed  son,  "  say  how  fell  the  chiefs  of  Erin? 
Fell  they  by  the  sons  of  Lochlin,  striving  in  the  battle  of  heroes?  Or 
what  confines  the  strong  in  arms  to  the  dark  and  narrow  house?" 

"  Cathba,"  replied  the  hero,  "  fell  by  the  sword  of  Duchomar  at  the 
oak  of  the  noisy  streams.  Duchomar  came  to  Tura's  cave;  he  spoke 
to  the  lovely  Morna.  '  Morna,  fairest  among  women,  lovely  daughter 
of  strong-armed  Cormac!  Why  in  the  circle  of  stones,  in  the  cave  of 
the  rock  alone?  The  stream  murmurs  along.  The  old  tree  groans  in 
the  wind.  The  lake  is  troubled  before  thee;  dark  are  the  clouds  of  the 
sky!  But  thou  art  snow  on  the  heath;  thy  hair  is  the  mist  of  Cromla, 
when  it  curls  on  the  hill;  when  it  shines  to  the  beam  of  the  West!  Thy 


POEMS  OF    OSSIAN  701 

breasts  are  two  smooth  rocks  seen  from  Branno  of  streams;  thy  arms 
like  two  white  pillars  in  the  halls  of  the  great  Fingal.' 

"'From  whence,'  the  fair-haired  maid  replied,  'from  whence, 
Duchomar,  most  gloomy  of  men?  Dark  are  thy  brows  and  terrible  1 
Red  are  thy  rolling  eyes!  Does  Swaran  appear  on  the  sea?  What  oi 
the  foe,  Duchomar? '  '  From  the  hill  I  return,  O  Morna,  from  the  hill 
of  the  dark-brown  hinds.  Three  have  I  slain  with  my  bended  yew-, 
three  with  my  long-bounding  dogs  of  the  chase.  Lovely  daughter  of 
Cormac,  I  love  thee  as  my  soul !  I  have  slain  one  stately  deer  for  thee. 
High  was  his  branchy  head,  and  fleet  his  feet  of  wind. '  '  Duchomar! ' 
calm  the  maid  replied,  '  I  love  thee  not,  thou  gloomy  man !  Hard  is 
thy  heart  of  rock;  dark  is  thy  terrible  brow.  But  Cathba,  young  son 
of  Torman,  thou  art  the  love  of  Morna.  Thou  art  a  sunbeam  in  the 
day  of  the  gloomy  storm.  Sawest  thou  the  son  of  Torman,  lovely  on 
the  hill  of  his  hinds?  Here  the  daughter  of  Cormac  waits  the  coming 
of  Cathba.' 

" '  Long  shall  Morna  wait,'  Duchomar  said, '  long  shall  Morna  wait 
for  Cathba!  Behold  this  sword  unsheathed!  Here  wanders  the  blood 
of  Cathba !  Long  shall  Morna  wait.  He  fell  by  the  stream  of  Branno. 
On  Croma  will  I  raise  his  tomb,  daughter  of  blue-shielded  Cormac! 
Turn  on  Duchomar  thine  eyes;  his  arm  is  strong  as  a  storm.' 

"'Is  the  son  of  Torman  fallen?'  said  the  wildly  bursting  voice  of 
the  maid.  '  Is  he  fallen  on  his  echoing  hills,  the  youth  with  the  breast 
of  snow?  the  first  in  the  chase  of  hinds?  the  foe  of  the  strangers  of 
ocean?  Thou  art  dark  to  me,  Duchomar!  cruel  is  thine  arm  to  Morna! 
Give  me  that  sword,  my  foe !  I  love  the  wandering  blood  of  Cathba! ' 

"  He  gave  the  sword  to  her  tears.  She  pierced  his  manly  breast !  He 
fell,  like  the  bank  of  a  mountain  stream,  and,  stretching  forth  his  hand, 
he  spoke:  'Daughter  of  blue-shielded  Cormac,  thou  hast  slain  me  in 
youth!  The  sword  is  cold  in  my  breast;  Morna,  I  feel  it  cold.  Give 
me  to  Moina  the  maid.  Duchomar  was  the  dream  of  her  night! 
She  will  raise  my  tomb ;  the  hunter  shall  raise  my  fame.  But  draw 
the  sword  from  my  breast.  Morna,  the  steel  is  cold ! '  She  came,  in  all 
her  tears  she  came;  she  drew  the  sword  from  his  breast.  He  pierced 
her  white  side!  He  spread  her  fair  locks  on  the  ground!  Her  burst- 
ing blood  sounds  from  her  side;  her  white  arm  is  stained  with  red. 
Rolling  in  death  she  lay.  The  cave  re-echoed  to  her  sighs." 

"  Peace,"  said  Cuthullin,  "  to  the  souls  of  the  heroes!  Their  deeds 
were  great  in  fight.  Let  them  show  their  features  of  war.  My  soul 
shall  then  be  firm  in  danger,  mine  arm  like  the  thunder  of  heaven. 
But  be  thou  on  a  moonbeam,  O  Morna!  near  the  window  of  my  rest, 
when  my  thoughts  are  of  peace,  when  the  din  of  arms  is  past.  Gather 
the  strength  of  the  tribes!  Move  to  the  wars  of  Erin!  Attend  the  car 
of  my  battles!  Rejoice  in  the  noise  of  my  course!  Place  three  spears 
by  my  side;  follow  the  bounding  of  my  steeds!  that  my  soul  may  be 
strong  in  my  friends,  when  battle  darkens  round  the  beams  of  my 
steel!" 

As  rushes  a  stream  of  foam  from  the  dark  shady  deep  of  Cromla, 


702  JAMES   MACPHERSON 

when  the  thunder  is  traveling  above,  and  dark-brown  night  sits  on 
half  the  hill;  —  through  the  breaches  of  the  tempest  look  forth  the 
dim  faces  of  ghosts;  —  so  fierce,  so  vast,  so  terrible  rushed  on  the  sons 
of  Erin.  The  chief,  like  a  whale  of  ocean,  whom  all  his  billows  pursue, 
poured  valor  forth  as  a  stream,  rolling  his  might  along  the  shore.  The 
sons  of  Lochlin  heard  the  noise,  as  the  sound  of  a  winter  storm.  Swa- 
ran  struck  his  bossy  shield ;  he  called  the  son  of  Arno.  "  What  murmur 
rolls  along  the  hill,  like  the  gathered  flies  of  the  eve?  The  sons  of  Erin 
descend,  or  rustling  winds  roar  in  the  distant  wood!  Such  is  the  noise 
of  Gormal,  before  the  white  tops  of  my  waves  arise."  .  .  . 

Like  autumn's  dark  storms,  pouring  from  two  echoing  hills,  towards 
each  other  approached  the  heroes.  Like  two  deep  streams  from  high 
rocks  meeting,  mixing,  roaring,  on  the  plain,  loud,  rough  and  dark 
In  battle  meet  LochHn  and  Innisfail.  Chief  mixes  his  strokes  with 
chief,  and  man  with  man;  steel,  clanging,  sounds  on  steel.  Helmets 
are  cleft  on  high.  Blood  bursts  and  smokes  around.  Strings  murmur 
on  the  polished  yews.  Darts  rush  along  the  sky.  Spears  fall  like  the 
circles  of  light  which  gild  the  face  of  night.  As  the  noise  of  the  trou- 
bled ocean,  when  roll  the  waves  on  high,  as  the  last  peal  of  thunder 
in  heaven,  such  is  the  din  of  war!  Though  Cormac's  hundred  bards 
were  there  to  give  the  fight  to  song,  feeble  was  the  voice  of  a  hundred 
bards  to  send  the  deaths  to  future  times.  For  many  were  the  deaths 
of  heroes;  wide  poured  the  blood  of  the  brave!  .  .  . 

THE  DEATH  OF  CUTHULLIN 

.  .  .  Cuthullin  sits  at  Lego's  lake,  at  the  dark  rolling  of  waters.  Night 
is  around  the  hero.  His  thousands  spread  on  the  heath.  A  hundred 
oaks  burn  in  the  midst.  The  feast  of  shells  is  smoking  wide.  Carril 
strikes  the  harp  beneath  a  tree.  His  gray  locks  glitter  in  the  beam. 
The  rustling  blast  of  night  is  near,  and  lifts  his  aged  hair.  His  song 
is  of  the  blue  Togorma,  and  of  its  chief,  Cuthullin's  friend.  "  Why  art 
thou  absent,  Connal,  in  the  day  of  the  gloomy  storm?  The  chiefs  of 
the  South  have  convened  against  the  car-borne  Cormac.  The  winds 
detain  thy  sails.  Thy  blue  waters  roll  around  thee.  But  Cormac  is 
not  alone.  The  son  of  Semo  fights  his  wars!  Semo's  son  his  battles 
fights !  the  terror  of  the  stranger !  he  that  is  like  the  vapor  of  death, 
slowly  borne  by  sultry  winds.  The  sun  reddens  in  his  presence;  the 
people  fall  around." 

Such  was  the  son'g  of  Carril,  when  a  son  of  the  foe  appeared.  He 
threw  down  his  pointless  spear.  He  spoke  the  words  of  Torlath,  — 
Torlath,  chief  of  heroes,  at  Lego's  sable  surge;  he  that  led  his  thous- 
ands to  battle  against  car-borne  Cormac,  Cormac  who  was  distant  far, 
in  Temora's  echoing  halls;  he  learned  to  bend  the  bow  of  his  fathers, 
and  to  lift  the  spear.  Nor  long  didst  thou  lift  the  spear,  mildly  shin- 
ing beam  of  youth!  Death  stands  dim  behind  thee,  like  the  darkened 
half  of  the  moon  behind  its  growing  light !  Cuthullin  rose  before  the 
bard  that  came  from  generous  Torlath.  He  offered  him  the  shell  of 


POEMS   OF   OSSIAN  703 

joy.  He  honored  the  son  of  songs.  " Sweet  voice  on  Lego! "  he  said, 
"  what  are  the  words  of  Torlath?  Comes  he  to  our  feast  or  battle,  the 
car-borne  son  of  Cantela?  " 

"He  comes  to  thy  battle,"  replied  the  bard,  "to  the  sounding 
strife  of  spears.  When  morning  is  gray  on  Lego,  Torlath  will  fight  on 
the  plain.  Wilt  thou  meet  him  in  thine  arms,  king  of  the  isle  of  mist? 
Terrible  is  the  spear  of  Torlath!  It  is  a  meteor  of  night.  He  lifts  it, 
and  the  people  fall!  Death  sits  in  the  lightning  of  his  sword! " 

"Do  I  fear,"  replied  Cuthullin,  "the  spear  of  car-borne  Torlath? 
He  is  brave  as  a  thousand  heroes,  but  my  soul  delights  in  war.  The 
sword  rests  not  by  the  side  of  Cuthullin,  bard  of  the  times  of  old! 
Morning  shall  meet  me  on  the  plain,  and  gleam  on  the  blue  arms  of 
Semo's  son.  But  sit  thou  on  the  heath,  0  bard!  and  let  us  hear  thy 
voice.  Partake  of  the  joyful  shell,  and  hear  the  songs  of  Temora! " 

"  This  is  no  time,"  replied  the  bard,  "  to  hear  the  song  of  joy;  when 
the  mighty  are  to  meet  in  battle,  like  the  strength  of  the  waves  of 
Lego.  Why  art  thou  so  dark,  Slimora!  with  all  thy  silent  woods?  No 
star  trembles  on  thy  top ;  no  moonbeam  on  thy  side.  But  the  meteors 
of  death  are  there ;  the  gray  watery  forms  of  ghosts.  Why  art  thou 
dark,  Slimora!  with  thy  silent  woods?" 

He  retired,  in  the  sound  of  his  song.  Carril  joined  his  voice.  The 
music  was  like  the  memory  of  joys  that  are  past,  pleasant  and  mourn- 
ful to  the  soul;  the  ghosts  of  departed  bards  heard  on  Slimora's  side. 
Soft  sounds  spread  along  the  wood.  The  silent  valleys  of  night  re- 
joice. So,  when  he  sits  in  the  silence  of  the  day,  in  the  valley  of  his 
breeze,  the  humming  of  the  mountain  bee  comes  to  Ossian's  ear;  the 
gale  drowns  it  in  its  course,  but  the  pleasant  sound  returns  again. 
Slant  looks  the  sun  on  the  field!  gradual  grows  the  shade  of  the 
hill! 

"Raise,"  said  Cuthullin  to  his  hundred  bards,  "the  song  of  the 
noble  Fingal;  that  song  which  he  hears  at  night,  when  the  dreams  of 
his  rest  descend,  when  the  bards  strike  the  distant  harp,  and  the 
faint  light  gleams  on  Selma's  walls.  Or  let  the  grief  of  Lara  rise;  the 
sighs  of  the  mother  of  Calmar,  when  he  was  sought  in  vain  on  his 
hills,  when  she  beheld  his  bow  in  the  hall.  Carril,  place  the  shield  of 
Caithbat  on  that  branch.  Let  the  spear  of  Cuthullin  be  near,  that 
the  sound  of  my  battle  may  rise  with  the  gray  beam  of  the  East." 
The  hero  leaned  on  his  father's  shield;  the  song  of  Lara  rose!  The 
hundred  bards  were  distant  far;  Carril  alone  is  near  the  chief.  The 
words  of  the  song  were  his;  the  sound  of  his  harp  was  mournful. 

"  Alcletha  with  the  aged  locks!  mother  of  car-borne  Calmar!  why 
dost  thou  look  toward  the  desert  to  behold  the  return  of  thy  son? 
These  are  not  his  heroes,  dark  on  the  heath;  nor  is  that  the  voice  of 
Calmar.  It  is  but  the  distant  grove,  Alcletha!  but  the  roar  of  the 
mountain  wind!"  .  .  . 

Such  was  the  song  of  Carril,  when  Cuthullin  lay  on  his  shield.  The 
bards  rested  on  their  harps.  Sleep  fell  softly  around.  ThesonofSemo 
was  awake  alone.  His  soul  was  fixed  on  war.  The  burning  oaks  be- 


704  JAMES    MACPHERSON 

gan  to  decay.  Faint  red  light  is  spread  around.  A  feeble  voice  is 
heard.  The  ghost  of  Calmar  came!  He  stalked  dimly  along  the  beam. 
Dark  is  the  wound  in  his  side.  His  hair  is  disordered  and  loose.  Joy 
sits  pale  on  his  face.  He  seems  to  invite  Cuthullin  to  his  cave. 

"Son  of  the  cloudy  night!"  said  the  rising  chief  of  Erin.  "Why 
dost  thou  bend  thy  dark  eyes  on  me,  ghost  of  the  noble  Calmar? 
Wouldst  thou  frighten  me,  O  Matha's  son !  from  the  battles  of  Cor- 
mac?  Thy  hand  was  not  feeble  in  war,  neither  was  thy  voice  for 
peace.  How  art  thou  changed,  chief  of  Lara!  if  thou  now  dost  advise 
to  fly!  But,  Calmar,  I  never  fled.  I  never  feared  the  ghosts  of  night. 
Small  is  their  knowledge,  weak  their  hands;  their  dwelling  is  in  the 
wind.  But  my  soul  grows  in  danger,  and  rejoices  in  the  noise  of  steel. 
Retire  thou  to  thy  cave !  Thou  art  not  Calmar's  ghost.  He  delighted 
in  battle.  His  arm  was  like  the  thunder  of  heaven!"  He  retired  in 
his  blast  with  joy,  for  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  his  praise. 

The  faint  beam  of  the  morning  rose.  The  sound  of  Caithbat's 
buckler  spread.  Green  Erin's  warriors  convened,  like  the  roar  of 
many  streams.  The  horn  of  war  is  heard  over  Lego.  The  mighty 
Torlath  came.  "Why  dost  thou  come  with  thy  thousands,  Cuth- 
ullin?" said  the  chief  on  Lego.  "I  know  the  strength  of  thy  arm. 
Thy  soul  is  an  unextinguished  fire.  Why  fight  we  not  on  the  plain, 
and  let  our  hosts  behold  our  deeds?  Let  them  behold  us  like  roaring 
waves  that  tumble  round  a  rock;  the  mariners  hasten  away,  and  look 
on  their  strife  with  fear." 

"Thou  risest  like  the  sun  on  my  soul,"  replied  the  son  of  Semo. 
"Thine  arm  is  mighty,  O  Torlath!  and  worthy  of  my  wrath.  Retire, 
ye  men  of  Ullin,  to  Slimora's  shady  side.  Behold  the  chief  of  Erin 
in  the  day  of  his  fame.  Carril!  tell  to  mighty  Connal,  if  Cuthullin 
must  fall, — tell  him  I  accused  the  winds  which  roar  on  Togorma's 
waves.  Never  was  he  absent  in  battle,  when  the  strife  of  my  fame 
arose.  Let  his  sword  be  before  Cormac  like  the  beam  of  heaven. 
Let  his  counsel  sound  in  Temora,  in  the  day  of  danger." 

He  rushed,  in  the  sound  of  his  arms,  like  the  terrible  spirit  of  Loda, 
when  he  comes  in  the  roar  of  a  thousand  storms,  and  scatters  battles 
from  his  eyes.  He  sits  on  a  cloud  over  Lochlin's  seas.  His  mighty 
hand  is  on  his  sword.  Winds  lift  his  flaming  locks !  The  waning  moon 
half  lights  his  dreadful  face.  His  features,  blended  in  darkness,  arise 
to  view.  So  terrible  was  Cuthullin  in  the  day  of  his  fame.  Torlath 
fell  by  his  hand.  His  heroes  mourned.  They  gather  round  the  chief, 
like  the  clouds  of  the  desert.  A  thousand  swords  rose  at  once;  a  thou- 
sand arrows  flew;  but  the  son  of  Semo  stood  like  a  rock  in  the  midst 
of  a  roaring  sea.  They  fell  around.  He  strode  in  blood.  Dark  Slimora 
echoed  wide.  The  sons  of  Ullin  came.  The  battle  spread  over  Lego. 
The  chief  of  Erin  overcame.  He  returned  over  the  field  with  his  fame. 
But  pale  he  returned!  The  joy  of  his  face  was  dark.  He  rolled  his 
eyes  in  silence.  The  sword  hung,  unsheathed,  in  his  hand.  His  spear 
bent  at  every  step. 

"  Carril,"  said  the  chief  in  secret  "  the  strength  of  Cuthullin  fails. 


POEMS  OF  OSSIAN  705 

My  days  are  with  the  years  that  are  past.  No  morning  of  mine  shall 
arise.  They  shall  seek  me  at  Temora,  but  I  shall  not  be  found.  Cor- 
mac  will  weep  in  his  hall,  and  say, '  Where  is  Erin's  chief  ? '  But  my 
name  is  renowned!  my  fame  in  the  song  of  bards.  The  youth  will  say 
in  secret, '  O  let  me  die  as  Cuthullin  died !  Renown  clothed  him  like  a 
robe.  The  light  of  his  fame  is  great.'  Draw  the  arrow  from  my  side. 
Lay  Cuthullin  beneath  that  oak.  Place  the  shield  of  Cathba  near, 
that  they  may  behold  me  amidst  the  arms  of  my  fathers! " 

"  And  is  the  son  of  Semo  fallen?  "  said  Carril  with  a  sigh.  "  Mourn- 
ful are  Tura's  walls.  Sorrow  dwells  at  Dunsc'aith.  Thy  spouse  is  left 
alone  in  her  youth.  The  son  of  thy  love  is  alone!  He  shall  come  to 
Bragela,  and  ask  her  why  she  weeps.  He  shall  lift  his  eyes  to  the  wall, 
and  see  his  father's  sword.  '  Whose  sword  is  that? '  he  will  say.  The 
soul  of  his  mother  is  sad."  .  .  . 

By  the  dark  rolling  waves  of  Lego  they  raised  the  hero's  tomb.  Lu- 
ath  at  a  distance  lies.  The  song  of  bards  rose  over  the  dead. 

"  Blest  be  thy  soul,  son  of  Semo !  Thou  wert  mighty  in  battle.  Thy 
strength  was  like  the  strength  of  a  stream;  thy  speed  like  the  eagle's 
wing.  Thy  path  in  battle  was  terrible ;  the  steps  of  death  were  behind 
thy  sword.  Blest  be  thy  soul,  son  of  Semo,  car-borne  chief  of  Dun- 
scaith!  Thou  hast  not  fallen  by  the  sword  of  the  mighty,  neither  was 
thy  blood  on  the  spear  of  the  brave.  The  arrow  came,  like  the  sting 
of  death  in  a  blast;  nor  did  the  feeble  hand  which  drew  the  bow  per- 
ceive it.  Peace  to  thy  soul,  in  thy  cave,  chief  of  the  isle  of  mist!"  .  .  . 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND   BIBLIOGRAPHICAL 

NOTES 

[The  outline  biographies  that  follow  are  in  most  cases  abridged  from  the  Dic- 
tionary of  National  Biography.  Particular  references  to  this  are  to  "D.  N.  B." 

The  bibliographical  notes  make  no  pretension  to  completeness,  but  are  in- 
tended to  suggest  texts  and  critical  references  convenient  for  the  student.  In 
addition  to  the  books  mentioned  under  particular  authors,  the  following  are 
of  use  for  the  whole  period:  Gosse's  Eighteenth  Century  Literature;  T.  S.  Perry's 
English  Literature  of  the  Eighteenth  Century;  Dennis's  The  Age  of  Pope;  Sec- 
combe's  The  Age  of  Johnson;  Leslie  Stephen's  English  Literature  and  Society  in  the 
Eighteenth  Century  and  History  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century;  and 
Lecky's  History  of  England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

References  are  not  given  for  Cowper,  Gray,  and  Pope,  as  these  are  more 
properly  treated  in  the  collections  covering  eighteenth-century  poetry.] 

JOSEPH  ADDISON  was  born  at  Milston,  Wiltshire,  May  i,  1672.  He 
attended  the  Charterhouse  School  and  Queen's  College,  Oxford 
(M.  A.,  1693);  held  a  fellowship  till  1711;  experimented  in  poetical 
composition,  some  of  his  writings  being  included  by  Dryden  in 
his  Miscellany  Poems,  1693-94;  traveled  on  the  Continent,  1699- 
1703;  became  Under- Secretary  of  State,  1705;  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment from  1708  till  his  death;  was  the  centre  of  the  group  of  wits 
that  frequented  Button's  coffee-house,  an  establishment  founded 
by  a  protege  of  Addison's  about  1711;  married  the  Countess  of  War- 
wick, 1716;  retired  from  government  service  in  1718,  with  a  pension 
of  ,£1500;  died  June  17,  1719.  Addison's  writings  include  The 
Campaign,  a  poem  on  the  battle  of  Blenheim,  1704;  Remarks  on 
Several  Parts  of  Italy,  1705;  Fair  Rosamond,  the  text  of  an  opera, 
1707;  contributions  to  The  Taller,  1709-10,  The  Spectator,  1711-12 
(see  the  note  on  page  141),  The  Guardian,  1713,  The  Spectator  con- 
tinued, 1714,  and  The  Freeholder,  1716;  Cato,  a  tragedy,  1713;  The 
Drummer,  a  comedy  (not  acknowledged),  1716;  besides  Latin 
poems,  political  pamphlets,  and  other  periodical  writings. 

Addison's  Works  are  collected  in  six  volumes,  in  both  an  English 
and  an  American  edition  of  1856.  There  are  also  many  separate  edi- 
tions of  The  Spectator,  of  which  the  best  is  that  published  by  Dent  in 
1898.  This  and  the  other  periodicals  with  which  Addison  was  con- 
nected are  also  conveniently  found  in  Chalmers's  British  Essayists. 
Good  selections  from  Addison's  prose  have  been  made  byT.  Arnold 
(Clarendon  Press),  Wendell  and  Greenough  (Ginn  and  Co.,  Boston), 
and  E.  B.  Reed  (Holt,  N.  Y.).  Dr.  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison  is  still 
standard.  More  recent  biographies  are  those  of  Leslie  Stephen  in 
the  D.  N.  B.,  and  of  W.  J..  Courthope  in  the  Men  of  Letters  series. 
For  criticism,  see  the  introductions  to  the  three  volumes  of  selec- 
tions mentioned  above,  and  the  three  biographies;  also  Minto's 


70S  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

Manual  of  English  Prose  Literature.  Other  critical  accounts  are 
Hazlitt's  (in  English  Comic  Writers],  Thackeray's  (in  English  Hu- 
mourists}, and  Macaulay's.  An  important  account  of  Addison's 
relation  to  the  literary  conditions  of  his  time  is  found  in  Beljame's 
Le  Public  et  les  Hommes  de  Lettres  au  Dixhuitieme  Siede. 

GEORGE  BERKELEY  was  born  in  Ireland,  March  12,  1685.  He 
attended  Trinity  College,  Dublin  (B.  A.,  1704);  became  a  fellow; 
studied  natural  science  and  philosophy  with  much  zeal,  and  pub- 
lished three  works  setting  forth  a  new  theory,  sometimes  called 
monistic  idealism;  became  junior  dean  and  Greek  Lecturer  at 
Trinity;  visited  England,  17 13,  making  the  acquaintance  of  Addison, 
Steele,  and  Pope;  was  chaplain  to  the  ambassador  to  Sicily,  and 
traveling  tutor  to  a  young  gentleman;  became  Dean  of  Derry,  1724; 
sailed  to  America,  1728,  remaining  three  years  in  Rhode  Island; 
planned  a  Christian  college  for  the  Bermudas,  but  failed  to  receive 
the  necessary  support;  became  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  1734;  retired  to 
Oxford,  1752,  and  died  there,  January  14,  1753.  Berkeley's  chief 
writings  are:  Essay  towards  a  New  Theory  of  Vision,  1709;  Treatise 
concerning  the  Principles  of  Human  Knowledge,  1710;  Dialogues  be- 
tween Hylas  and  Philonous,  1713;  Alciphron,  or  the  Minute  Philoso- 
pher, 1732;  The  Querist,  1735-37;  Siris,  a  Chain  of  Philosophical 
Reflections  and  Inquiries  concerning  the  Virtues  of  Tar-Water,  1744. 

The  Life  and  Letters  of  Berkeley,  by  A.  C.  Eraser  (Oxford,  1871),  is 
the  standard  biography.  Eraser  also  edited  Berkeley's  Works  in 
1901.  The  Dialogues  are  published  separately  in  the  Bohn  Library. 
On  Berkeley's  prose  style  one  may  profitably  read  the  introductory 
note  by  Saintsbury,  in  Craik's  English  Prose,  volume  iv. 

LORD  BOLINGBROKE  (HENRY  ST.  JOHN)  was  born  at  Battersea, 
October,  1678;  attended  Eton;  led  a  life  of  much  dissipation;  was 
elected  Member  of  Parliament,  1700,  and  became  a  Tory  leader, 
being  eventually  Secretary  at  War  and  Secretary  of  State;  was 
made  Viscount  Bolingbroke  in  1712;  lost  his  office  on  the  accession  of 
George  I;  was  impeached  and  attainted  by  the  new  Whig  Parlia- 
ment, and  fled  to  France,  1714;  became  Secretary  of  State  to  James 
the  Pretender,  but  was  dismissed  in  1716;  being  pardoned  in  1723,  he 
returned  to  England,  and  again  engaged  in  politics;  became  an  inti- 
mate of  the  poet  Pope;  retired  again  to  France  in  1735,  spending 
most  of  his  time  there  till  his  final  return  to  England  in  1743  or  1744; 
lived  in  retirement  till  his  death  on  December  12,  1751.  Boling- 
broke's  writings  include  many  pamphlets;  among  the  most  import- 
ant of  those  published  in  his  lifetime  are  the  Letter  on  the  Spirit  of 
Patriotism  and  The  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King,  1749;  after  his  death  ap- 
peared Letters  on  the  Study  and  Use  of  History,  The  True  Use  of 
Retirement  and  Study,  Reflections  upon  Exile,  Reflections  on  the  State 
of  the  Nation,  Essays  addressed  to  Alexander  Pope,  and  others. 

There  is  no  collected  edition  of  Bolingbroke's  works.  The  best 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  709 

authorities  on  his  life  and  philosophy  are  A.  Hassall's  Bolingbroke, 
1889;  Churton  Collins's  Bolingbroke,  A  Historical  Study,  1886;  and 
W.  Sichel's  Bolingbroke  and  his  Times,  1901-02.  See  also  Leslie 
Stephen's  article  in  the  D.  N.  B.,  and  his  History  of  English  Thought 
in  the  i8th  Century. 

JAMES  BOSWELL  was  born  on  his  father's  estate  in  Scotland,  in 
1740.  He  attended  school  at  Edinburgh,  and  studied  law  both  there 
and  at  Glasgow;  frequently  visited  London;  procured  an  introduc- 
tion to  Dr.  Johnson  in  1763;  traveled  and  studied  on  the  Continent; 
in  Italy  made  the  acquaintance  of  Paoli,  the  Corsican  patriot;  prac- 
ticed law  in  Scotland,  always  with  many  intervals  spent  at  London; 
accompanied  Dr.  Johnson  on  a  tour  to  Scotland  and  the  Hebrides, 
1773;  in  the  same  year  was  elected  a  member  of  Johnson's  Club; 
came  to  London  to  reside,  1789;  practiced  law  unsuccessfully,  and 
spent  much  time  on  his  Life  of  Johnson;  fell  into  much  dissipation 
during  his  last  years,  dying  May  19,  1795.  Boswell's  writings  in- 
clude An. 4 ccouni  of  Corsica  .  .  .  and  Memoirs  of  Pascal  Paoli,  1768; 
Journal  of  a  Tour  to  the  Hebrides  with  Samuel  Johnson,  1786;  and 
The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  1791;  besides  numerous  pamphlets. 

The  standard  edition  of  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  is  that  of  G. 
Birkbeck  Hill,  in  six  volumes,  1887 ;  there  is  also  a  convenient  edition 
in  two  volumes  in  Everyman's  Library;  and  Henry  Holt  and  Co. 
publish  a  text  abridged  with  good  judgment.  The  Journal  of  a  Tour 
to  the  Hebrides  is  included  in  the  complete  editions  of  the  Life;  it  is 
also  published  separately  in  the  Temple  Classics.  For  Boswell's  life 
see  the  article  by  Leslie  Stephen,  in  the  D.  N.  B.;  a  Life  of  Boswell 
by  P.  Fitzgerald  (1891) ;  also  H.  G.  Graham's  Scottish  Men  of  Letters 
in  the  Eighteenth  Century  (1901).  Most  important  of  the  critical 
writings  on  Boswell  are  the  essays  of  Macaulay  and  Carlyle.  Men- 
tion should  also  be  made  of  an  essay  by  Austin  Dobson,  on  "  Bos- 
well's Predecessors  and  Editors,"  in  his  Miscellanies,  1899. 

EDMUND  BURKE  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  January,  1729.  He  at- 
tended Trinity  College  (iJ.  A.,  1748);  came  to  London  and  studied 
law  in  the  Middle  Temple ;  became  private  secretary  to  Lord  Rock- 
ingham,  the  prime  minister,  1765;  was  Member  of  Parliament  from 
1 765  to  1794;  made  notable  speeches  on  the  American  Revolution 
(1774-76)  and  on  Indian  affairs  (1785) ;  entered  the  ministry  as  Pay- 
master of  the  Forces,  1782;  opened  the  case  for  the  impeachment  of 
Warren  Hastings,  Governor- General  of  India,  1788;  spoke  against 
the  French  republic,  1790,  and  broke  with  Fox  and  his  other  Whig 
friends  on  account  of  his  opposition  to  the  Revolution;  was  pen- 
sioned by  the  crown  on  his  retirement  in  1794;  lost  his  only  son  in  the 
same  year;  died  at  his  estate  (Beaconsfield)  July  9,  1797.  Burke's 
writings  include:  A  Vindication  of  Natural  Society,  1756;  A  Philoso- 
phical Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  Beau- 
tiful, 1756;  Thoughts  on  the  Cause  of  the  Present  Discontents,  1770; 


7io  BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTES 

Letter  to  the  Sheriffs  of  Bristol,  1777;  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in 
France,  1790;  Appeal  from  the  New  to  the  Old  Whigs,  1791 ;  Letter  to  a 
Noble  Lord,  1796;  Thoughts  on  the  Prospects  of  a  Peace  with  the  Regi- 
cide Directory,  1796;  besides  very  many  letters,  pamphlets,  and 
speeches. 

There  is  no  standard  or  complete  edition  of  Burke's  works. 
Burke's  Select  Works,  edited  by  E.  J.  Payne,  in  three  volumes 
(Clarendon  Press),  is  the  most  serviceable.  A  good  volume  of  selec- 
tions is  edited  by  Bliss  Perry  (Holt,  N.  Y.).  The  standard  biography 
is  that  by  John  Morley,  in  the  Men  of  Letters  series.  For  interpre- 
tations of  Burke's  character,  besides  Morley's,  see  Payne's  and 
Perry's  introductions,  in  the  volumes  already  cited,  and  Woodrow 
Wilson's  essay  (in  his  Mere  Literature]  on  "  The  Interpreter  of  English 
Liberty."  On  Burke's  style  there  is  an  important  passage  in  Haz- 
litt's  essay  on  "The  Prose  Style  of  Poets,"  in  The  Plain  Speaker;  see 
also  an  essay  by  Augustine  Birrell  in  Obiter  Dicta,  second  series. 

FRANCES  BURNEY  (MADAME  D'ARBLAY)  was  born  at  King's 
Lynn,  June  13,  1752.  She  was  educated  at  home  (her  father,  Dr. 
Charles  Burney,  being  a  distinguished  musician) ;  wrote  fiction  and 
poetry  from  her  childhood;  published  her  first  novel,  Evelina, 
secretly  in  1778,  and  through  its  success  became  famous,  in  particu- 
lar winning  the  friendship  of  Mrs.  Thrale  and  Dr.  Johnson;  was 
appointed  Second  Keeper  of  the  Robes  to  the  Queen,  1786,  and  kept 
an  important  diary  of  her  experiences  at  the  palace;  retired  in  1791, 
and  in  1793  married  General  d'Arblay,  a  French  refugee;  wrote  one 
or  two  plays,  but  without  success;  lived  in  France,  1802-12,  later 
returning  to  England,  where  she  died  on  January  6,  1840.  Her 
works  are  Evelina,  1778;  Cecilia,  1782;  Camilla,  1796;  The  Wanderer, 
1814;  Memoirs  of  Dr.  Burney,  1832;  Diary  and  Letters,  published 
1842  and  1846. 

The  best  edition  of  Mme.  d'Arblay's.Dzary  and  Letters  is  that  edited 
by  Austin  Dobson  (six  volumes,  1904-05).  Mr.  Dobson  has  also 
written  her  life,  under  the  title  Fanny  Burney,  for  the  Men  of  Let- 
ters series.  For  criticism,  see  Macaulay's  essay  on  Madame 
d'Arblay,  and  a  short  essay  by  Saintsbury,  in  his  Essays  in  English 
Literature,  second  series. 

LORD  CHESTERFIELD  (PHILIP  STANHOPE,  fourth  Earl  of  Chester- 
field) was  born  in  London,  September  22,  1694.  He  studied  at 
Cambridge  for  a  year,  then  traveled  on  the  continent ;  became  Gen- 
tleman of  the  Bedchamber  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  entered  the 
House  of  Commons  before  he  was  quite  twenty- one;  succeeded  to 
the  peerage,  1726;  became  a  member  of  the  Privy  Council,  1728, 
and  in  the  same  year  ambassador  to  the  Hague;  while  on  the  Conti- 
nent became  intimate  with  Mile,  du  Bouchet,  by  whom  he  had  a 
son,  Philip,  to  whom  his  principal  correspondence  was  addressed; 
was  dismissed  from  the  government,  1733;  later  wrote  pamphlets 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  711 

against  the  administration  of  Walpole,  and  became  the  leader  of  the 
opposition  in  the  House  of  Lords;  entered  the  Pelham  ministry, 
1748,  and  became  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  1745,  and  Secretary 
of  State,  1746;  thereafter  retired  from  office,  built  Chesterfield 
House,  collected  paintings,  corresponded  with  men  of  letters,  and 
gave  much  attention  to  the  education  of  his  natural  son;  died 
March  24, 1773.  Chesterfield's  writings  consist  largely  of  his  letters 
and  political  tracts. 

Chesterfield's  Letters  have  been  edited  by  J.  Bradshaw  (three  vol- 
umes, 1892)  and  by  the  Earl  of  Carnarvon  (2d  edition,  1890).  There 
are  many  selections.  The  standard  biography  is  by  W.  H.  Craig 
(1907).  For  criticism,  see  an  essay  by  Churton  Collins  in  his  Essays 
and  Studies,  and  one  by  Paul  Elmer  More  in  Shelburne  Essays,  fifth 
series. 

COLLEY  GIBBER  was  born  in  London,  November  6,  1671.  He  had 
only  a  free-school  education;  served  for  a  time  in  the  army;  in  1690 
joined  the  companies  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  and  acted  for  almost  the 
whole  of  his  remaining  life;  brought  out  his  first  play  in  1696;  about 
1711  acquired  a  share  in  the  management  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre;  in 
1730  was  appointed  Poet  Laureate,  as  a  reward  for  Whig  loyalty; 
acted  only  occasionally  after  1733;  quarreled  with  Pope,  and  dis- 
placed Theobald  as  the  hero  of  TheDunciad;died  December  12,  1757. 
Gibber's  writings  include  about  30  plays,  1696-1745,  some  worthless 
odes,  and  the  Apology  (1740). 

The  Apology  has  been  edited  by  R.  W.  Lowe  (1889).  For  Gibber's 
life,  see  the  article  by  Joseph  Knight  in  the  D.  N.  B. 

DANIEL  DEFOE  (whose  real  name  was  Foe,  altered  by  him  about 
1703)  was  born  in  London,  in  1660  or  1661.  He  was  educated  at  a 
Dissenters'  academy,  and  took  a  course  designed  for  the  ministry, 
but  about  1685  decided  to  go  into  business;  in  1688  joined  the  army 
of  King  William;  in  1695  was  appointed  to  an  office  in  the  revenue 
service;  about  1700  became  a  pamphleteer  in  defense  of  various 
policies  of  William  the  Third;  founded  the  Review  of  the  A/airs  of 
France,  conducting  it  1704-13;  was  sent  to  Scotland  on  a  secret  mis- 
sion for  the  government,  1705;  wrote  pamphlets  on  behalf  of  Har- 
ley's  policies,  against  the  Jacobites,  etc. ;  for  some  time  contributed 
to  Mist's  Journal,  a  Jacobite  organ,  in  such  a  way  as  to  hamper  the 
cause  it  was  designed  to  support;  in  later  years  devoted  himself  to 
fiction  and  miscellaneous  writings;  died,  apparently  in  obscurity  and 
poverty,  April  26,  1731.  Defoe's  writings,  which  were  published 
very  largely  without  name  or  under  pseudonyms,  have  been  esti- 
mated to  number  some  250;  among  the  more  important  are  the 
Essay  upon  Projects,  1697;  The  True- Born  Englishman  (a  verse 
satire),  1701;  The  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters,  1702;  Appeal  to 
Honor  and  Justice,  1715;  Robinson  Crusoe,  1719;  Moll  Flanders, 
1722;  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,  1722;  Complete  English  Tradesman, 
1725;  History  of  the  Devil,  1726. 


712  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

There  is  no  standard  text  of  Defoe's  works,  nor  any  approach  to  a 
complete  edition,  though  there  are  several  collections  of  his  fiction, 
of  which  the  best  is  the  Romances  and  Narratives,  edited  by  G.  A. 
Aitken  (1895-1900).  Miscellaneous  writings  maybe  found  in  part 
in  Morley's  Earlier  Life  and  Works  of  Defoe  (Carisbrooke  Library), 
Arber's  English  Garner,  and  the  Bohn  Library.  The  standard 
biography  is  still  (though  now  partly  obsolete)  Lee's  Daniel  Defoe: 
Life  and  recently  Discovered  Writings  (1869);  a  good  shorter  life  is 
that  by  William  Minto,  in  the  Men  of  Letters  series.  No  student  of 
Defoe  can  neglect  the  Bibliographical  Notes  published  by  W.  P. 
Trent  in  The  Nation  for  June  6,  July  n,  and  August  29,  1907.  For 
criticism,  besides  Minto,  see  an  essay  by  Leslie  Stephen,  on  "  Defoe's 
Novels,"  in  Hours  in  a  Library,  and  certain  pages  in  Walter  Raleigh's 
The  English  Novel. 

JOHN  DENNIS  was  born  in  London  in  1657.  He  entered  Caius 
College,  Cambridge  (B.A.,  1679);  traveled  on  the  Continent;  later 
had  a  small  government  office  under  the  patronage  of  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough;  wrote  for  the  stage,  1697-1708,  with  small  success; 
quarreled  with  Pope,  and  wrote  pamphlets  against  him,  from  1711; 
in  later  years  devoted  himself  largely  to  criticism;  died  in  poverty, 
January  6,  1734.  Dennis's  writings  include  some  eight  plays;  The 
Impartial  Critic,  1693 ;  The  Usefulness  of  theStage,  1698 ;  The  Advance- 
ment and  Reformation  of  Modern  Poetry,  1701 ;  The  Grounds  of  Criti- 
cism in  Poetry,  1704;  Letters  on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Shake- 
speare, 1711;  The  Stage  Defended,  1726;  and  many  pamphlets. 

Most  of  Dennis's  writings  can  be  found  only  in  the  (now  rare)  col- 
lections made  during  his  lifetime.  The  Impartial  Critic  has  been 
partly  reproduced  in  Spingarn's  Critical  Essays  of  the  I'jlh  Century, 
and  the  Letters  on  Shakespeare  in  Nichol  Smith's  Eighteenth  Century 
Essays  on  Shakespeare.  For  biography,  see  H.  G.  Paul's  John 
Dennis  (1911);  for  criticism,  Paul's  monograph,  Saintsbury's  History 
of  Criticism,  and  Lounsbury's  Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Artist. 
There  are  also  interesting  references  to  Dennis  in  Dr.  Johnson's 
Lives  of  Pope  and  Addison. 

HENRY  FIELDING  was  born  at  Sharpham  Park,  Somersetshire, 
April  22, 1707.  He  attended  Eton;  then  went  to  London,  and  began 
to  write  for  the  stage ;  studied  at  Leyden,  1728-29;  on  returning  to 
England,  became  a  playwright;  married  in  1734,  but  appears  to  have 
led  an  irregular  life;  managed  a  theatre  in  theHaymarket,  1736-37; 
studied  law  in  the  Middle  Temple,  and  in  1740  began  to  practice,  but 
with  little  success;  began  his  career  as  a  novelist  with  a  parody  of 
Richardson,  1742;  published  journals  in  support  of  the  government 
during  the  rebellion  of  1745  and  later;  in  1748  was  appointed  Justice 
of  the  Peace,  giving  much  attention  to  his  duties,  and  to  the  prob- 
lems of  crime  and  poverty;  made  a  voyage  to  Portugal,  to  aid  his 
failing  health,  1754,  and  died  at  Lisbon  on  October  8.  Fielding's 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  713 

works  include  some  twenty-four  plays,  1728-43;  Joseph  Andrews, 
1742;  Miscellanies  (including  Jonathan  Wild  and  many  satiric 
writings),  1743;  Tom  Jones,  1749;  Amelia,  1751 ;  Journal  of  a  Voyage 
to  Lisbon,  1755. 

The  best  edition  of  the  Works  of  Fielding  is  that  in  ten  volumes, 
with  a  biographical  essay  by  Leslie  Stephen,  1882.  His  life  was 
written  by  Austin  Dobson  for  the  Men  of  Letters  series  (revised  edi- 
tion, 1900).  For  criticism,  see  Thackeray's  English  Humourists,  an 
essay  on  "  Fielding's  Novels  "  in  Leslie  Stephen's  Hours  in  a  Library, 
and  the  various  histories  of  the  novel,  particularly  those  by  Stod- 
dard  and  Raleigh. 

EDWARD  GIBBON  was  born  at  Putney,  April  27,  1737;  attended 
Westminster  School,  and  entered  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  1752, 
but  left  the  next  year  on  account  of  a  conversion  to  Roman  Cath- 
olicism ;  was  sent  by  his  father  to  Switzerland,  to  be  educated  by  a 
Calvinist  minister;  acquired  French  readily,  and  renounced  his 
Catholic  faith;  studied  history  with  extraordinary  thoroughness; 
returned  to  England,  1758,  and  served  in  the  Hampshire  militia, 
1759-62;  made  further  journeys  to  the  Continent,  and  at  Rome, 
1764,  formed  the  design  of  his  history  of  the  Roman  empire;  joined 
Dr.  Johnson's  Club,  1774;  was  elected  Professor  of  History  at  the 
Royal  Academy,  1774;  Member  of  Parliament,  1774-83,  but  always 
inactive  in  politics;  became  famous  after  the  appearance  of  the  first 
volume  of  his  History,  1776,  and  in  particular  was  severely  attacked 
by  churchmen  for  his  chapters  on  the  rise  of  Christianity;  removed 
to  Lausanne,  1783,  to  finish  his  book,  returning  to  England  at  the 
time  of  its  completion,  1788,  but  only  temporarily;  again  returned 
to  England,  1793,  and  died  there,  January  16,  1794.  Gibbon's  writ- 
ings include:  Essai  sur  V 'Etude  de  la  Litter ature,  1761 ;  History  of  the 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  1776-88;  Vindication,  1779; 
Memoirs  of  my  Life  and  Writings  (compiled  by  Lord  Sheffield  from 
various  MSS.),  1796. 

The  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  has  been 
edited  with  notes  by  Dean  Milman  and  other  scholars;  the  standard 
American  edition  is  in  six  volumes,  1880.  The  Memoirs,  in  the  form 
of  their  publication  by  Sheffield,  have  been  edited  by  O.  F.  Emerson 
(Athenaeum  Press,  1898)  and  G.  Birkbeck  Hill,  1900.  In  1897  John 
Murray  edited  and  published  the  original  MSS.,  under  the  title 
Gibbon's  Autobiographies.  For  biography,  see  the  article  by  Leslie 
Stephen  in  the  D.  N.  B.,  and  the  life  by  J.  C.  Morison  in  the  Men  of 
Letters  series.  There  is  an  essay  on  "Gibbon's  Autobiography"  in 
Leslie  Stephen's  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  volume  I. 

WILLIAM  GODWIN  was  born  at  Wisbeach,  Cambridgeshire, 
March  3,  1756.  He  attended  Hoxton  Academy;  studied  philosophy 
and  theology  from  the  standpoint  of  a  dissenter,  and  preached  in 
nonconformist  churches,  1777-83;  became  a  Whig  of  the  radical 


714  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

group,  an  enthusiast  for  the  French  Revolution,  and  an  atheist; 
after  the  publication  of  Political  Justice  was  the  recognized  repre- 
sentative of  English  radicalism  on  the  theoretical  side;  later  modi- 
fied his  views,  especially  in  favor  of  the  domestic  affections;  in  1797 
married  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  a  woman's-rights  advocate,  by  whom 
he  had  a  daughter  Mary,  who  eventually  married  the  poet  Shelley; 
in  his  later  life  was  a  friend  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  and  was 
restored  by  the  latter  to  some  sort  of  religious  faith;  attempted  to 
write  tragedies,  but  without  success;  was  in  much  financial  difficulty 
till  he  obtained  a  sinecure  office  in  1833;  died  April  7,  1836.  God- 
win's writings  include:  Inquiry  concerning  Political  Justice,  1793; 
Things  as  they  Are,  or  the  Adventures  of  Caleb  Williams,  1794;  St. 
Leon,  1799;  Life  of  Chaucer,  1803;  and  many  miscellaneous  works, 
1809-34. 

Godwin's  writings  have  not  been  collected  in  a  modern  edition, 
though  there  are  various  reprints  of  the  novels.  The  section  of 
Political  Justice  on  Property  has  been  edited  by  H.  S.  Salt,  and  pub- 
lished under  the  title  of  Godwin's  Political  Justice,  1890.  For  bio- 
graphy, see  Kegan  Paul's  William  Godwin,  his  Friends  and  Contem- 
poraries, 1876.  For  criticism,  see  ~H.a.z\itt'sSpiritoftheAge,  Stephen's 
History  of  English  Thought  in  the  i8th  Century,  and  an  essay  on 
"  Godwin's  Novels"  in  Stephen's  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  volume  II. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  was  born  at  Pallas,  a  village  in  Ireland,  No- 
vember 19,  1728.  He  entered  Trinity  College  (B.  A.,  1749);  was  a 
poor  student,  and  for  a  time  an  idler  after  his  graduation;  studied 
medicine  at  Edinburgh,  and  later  on  the  continent,  wandering 
through  various  European  countries;  reached  London  in  destitution, 
about  1756;  became  an  usher  in  a  school;  later  did  hack-work  for 
Griffiths  the  publisher,  and  attempted  to  practice  medicine,  with 
small  success;  wrote  for  magazines  conducted  by  Smollett,  1757-60, 
then  for  Newbery's  Public  Ledger;  became  a  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson's 
in  1761,  and  was  one  of  the  original  members  of  the  Literary  Club; 
acquired  a  reputation  as  a  poet  through  The  Traveler,  1764;  wrote 
miscellaneous  books  to  order  for  various  publishers;  produced 
comedies  successfully  in  1768  and  1773;  suffered  almost  invariably 
from  poverty,  through  his  spendthriftiness,  and  was  also  involved  in 
many  journalistic  quarrels;  died  April  4, 1774.  Goldsmith's  writings 
include  The  Bee,  1759;  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762;  The  Traveler, 
1764;  Essays,  1765;  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  1766;  The  Good-Natured 
Man,  1768;  The  Deserted  Village,  1770;  History  of  England,  1771; 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  1774;  History  of  the  Earth  and  Animated 
Nature,  1774;  and  various  biographies. 

Goldsmith's  Works  were  edited  by  J.  W.  M.  Gibbs,  in  five  vol- 
umes, 1884-86;  there  is  also  a  convenient  one-volume  edition  in  the 
Globe  series.  The  Citizen  of  the  World  and  the  Essays  have  been  edited 
for  the  Temple  Classics.  There  are  good  biographies  by  William 
Black,  in  the  Men  of  Letters  series,  Austin  Dobson,  in  the  Great 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  715 

Writers  series,  and,  more  recently,  F.  F.  Moore  (1910).  See  also 
Macaulay's  article,  originally  written  for  the  Encyclopedia  Britan- 
nica,  and  DeQuincey's,  in  his  volume  of  Biographies.  For  criticism, 
in  addition  to  these  works,  see  also  Thackeray's  English  Humourists. 
There  is  a  brief  but  valuable  essay  on  The  Citizen  of  the  World  in 
Dobson's  Eighteenth  Century  Vignettes,  first  series. 

DAVID  HUME  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  April  26  (O.  S.),  1711.  He 
probably  entered  the  University  of  Edinburgh  about  1723,  but 
almost  nothing  is  known  of  his  education;  originally  intended  to 
practice  law,  but  abandoned  it  for  literature  and  philosophy;  was  in 
France,  1734-3 7,  studying  and  writing,  and  on  his  return  to  England 
published  his  first  book,  which  was  unsuccessful;  nevertheless  per- 
sisted in  his  philosophical  writing,  and  with  his  Essays  met  some 
success;  was  accused  of  heresy  and  atheism,  but  never  formally  re- 
nounced Christianity;  became  secretary  to  General  Sinclair  on  for- 
eign missions,  1747-48;  after  1751  turned  from  philosophy  to  history; 
was  appointed  Librarian  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  1752;  was  a 
member  of  the  embassy  to  Paris,  1763-66  and  1767-68;  befriended 
Rousseau,  and  took  him  to  England;  spent  his  last  years  quietly  in 
Edinburgh,  where  he  died  August.  25,  1776.  Hume's  works  include 
the  Treatise  of  Human  Nature,  1739-40;  Essays  Moral  and  Political, 
1741-42;  Philosophical  Essays,  1748;  Inquiry  concerning  the  Princi- 
ples of  Morals,  1751;  History  of  England,  1754-61;  Dialogues  con- 
cerning Natural  Religion,  1779. 

The  standard  edition  of  Hume's  Essays  is  that  by  T.  H.  Green 
and  T.  H.  Grose  (revised  ed.,  1889).  Hume's  life  has  been  written 
by  T.  H.  Huxley  for  the  Men  of  Letters  series,  and  by  H.  Calderwood 
for  the  Famous  Scots  series.  For  criticism,  see  Stephen's  History  of 
English  Thought  in  the  i&th  Century. 

RICHARD  HuRDwas  born  at  Congreve,  Staffordshire,  January  13, 
1720.  He  entered  Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge  (B.  A.,  1739),  and 
went  into  the  church;  gave  much  time  to  writing  on  theological  and 
literary  subjects;  was  made  Bishop  of  Lichfield  and  Coventry,  1775; 
preceptor  to  the  King's  sons,  1776;  Bishop  of  Worcester,  1781; 
acquired  a  large  library;  died  May  28,  1808.  Kurd's  writings  in- 
clude an  edition  of  Horace's  Ars  Poetica,  1749;  Discourse  on  Poetical 
Imitation,  1751;  Moral  and  Political  Dialogues,  1759;  Letter  son  Chiv- 
alry and  Romance,  1762;  Prophecies  concerning  the  Christian  Church, 
1772. 

Kurd's  Works  were  collected  in  1811.  His  Life  and  Writings,  by 
Kilvert,  appeared  in  1860.  On  the  significance  of  the  Letters  on 
Chivalry  and  Romance,  see  Beers's  History  of  Romanticism  in  the  i8th 
Century. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON  was  born  at  Lichfield,  September  18,  1709. 
He  entered  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  but  left  without  a  degree  for 


716  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

lack  of  means;  was  a  precocious  scholar,  but  always  in  poor  health; 
for  a  time  was  usher  in  a  school ;  did  his  first  literary  work  on  a  trans- 
lation, 1735;  in  the  same  year  married  Mrs.  Porter,  with  whom  he 
opened  a  boys'  school,  which  was  a  failure;  went  to  London  in  1737, 
and  secured  literary  hack-work;  was  employed  to  report  parlia- 
mentary debates  for  the  Gentleman' s  Magazine,  1741-43;  began  his 
plans  for  an  edition  of  Shakespeare  about  1745,  and  for  a  dictionary 
in  1747;  his  tragedy  Irene  was  produced  through  the  friendship  of 
Garrick  in  1749,  but  without  success;  in  1750  founded  The  Rambler; 
lost  his  wife,  1752,  and  lived  alone  thereafter,  except  for  dependents 
whom  he  befriended;  obtained  an  M.A.  from  Oxford,  1755;  edited 
the  Literary  Magazine,  1756-58;  received  a  pension  from  the  crown, 
1762;  joined  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  in  founding  the  Literary  Club, 
1763  or  1764;  wrote  political  pamphlets  for  the  Tory  ministry, 
1770-75;  journeyed  to  Scotland  with  Boswell  in  1773;  was  made 
LL.D.  by  Oxford,  1775;  went  to  Paris  with  his  friends  the  Thrales  in 
1775;  his  health  failed  gradually,  and  he  died  December  13,  1784. 
Johnson's  works  include:  London  (poem),  1738;  Life  of  Savage,  1744; 
The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  (poem),  1749;  The  Rambler,  1752;  Dic- 
tionary, with  a  Grammar  and  History  of  the  English  Language,  1755; 
Idler  papers,  1758-60;  Rasselas,  1759;  an  edition  of  the  Plays  of 
Shakespeare,  with  preface  and  notes,  1765;  Journey  to  the  Western 
Isles  of  Scotland,  1775;  Prefaces  Biographical  and  Critical  to  the 
Works  of  the  Most  Eminent  English  Poets,  1779-81. 

Johnson's  Works  have  been  issued  hi  various  editions,  but  there  is 
no  complete  critical  text.  His  periodical  writings  are  conveniently 
found  in  Chalmers's  British  Essayists.  The  Lives  of  the  Poets  have 
been  edited  by  G.  Birkbeck  Hill,  1905;  and  there  is  a  convenient 
edition  of  the  Chief  Lives  (those  of  Milton,  Dryden,  Swift,  Addison, 
Pope,  and  Gray),  with  essays  by  Macaulay,  Carlyle,  and  Matthew 
Arnold,  published  by  Holt,  N.  Y.  The  Camelot  Series  includes  a  good 
selection  of  Johnson's  Essays,  edited  by  S.  J.  Reid.  The  Preface  to 
Shakespeare  may  be  found  in  Nichol  Smith's  Eighteenth  Century 
Essays  on  Shakespeare  and  W.  Raleigh's  Johnson  on  Shakespeare. 
Selections  from  Johnson  have  been  edited  by  C.  G.  Osgood  for 
Holt's  English  Readings. 

The  standard  biography  is  of  course  Boswell's  (for  editions,  see 
Boswell) ;  there  is  also  a  brief  life  by  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  Men  of 
Letters  Series  (see  also  Stephen's  article  in  the  D.  N.  B.).  For  criti- 
cism see  the  essay  by  Macaulay,  originally  written  for  the  Encyclo- 
pedia Britannica;  Leslie  Stephen's  essay  on  "Dr.  Johnson's  Writ- 
ings," in  Hours  in  a  Library;  Birkbeck  Hill's  Dr.  Johnson,  his 
Friends  and  his  Critics  (1878);  and  Professor  Raleigh's  lecture  on 
Samuel  Johnson  (1907). 

MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS  was  born  in  London,  July  9,  1775. 
He  attended  Westminster  School  and  Christ  Church,  Oxford;  began 
to  write  fiction  at  the  age  of  sixteen;  traveled  on  the  Continent,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  717 

met  Goethe  at  Weimar;  became  a  German  scholar,  and  translated 
early  works  of  Goethe  and  Schiller;  made  a  reputation  through  The 
Monk,  which  was  partly  stimulated  by  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  Udolpho; 
was  Member  of  Parliament,  1796-1802;  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Scott,  and  secured  his  aid  as  a  contributor  to  Tales  of  Wonder;  went 
to  Jamaica,  1815,  to  see  an  estate  he  had  inherited,  and  made  a  code 
of  laws  for  the  welfare  of  his  slaves  ^visited  Byron  and  Shelley  on 
the  Continent;  died  at  sea,  May  14,  1818.  Lewis's  works  include 
Ambrosia,  or  The  Monk,  1795;  Tales  of  Terror,  1799;  Tales  of  Wonder, 
1801 ;  Romantic  Tales,  1808 ;  besides  numerous  plays  and  translations. 
The  Monk  has  been  reprinted  in  various  editions;  the  best  is  in  three 
volumes,  1906.  Lewis's  Life  and  Correspondence  was  published  1839. 
For  his  connection  with  the  fiction  of  the  romantic  movement,  see 
Beers's  History  of  Romanticism  in  the  i8th  Century. 

JAMES  MACPHERSON  was  born  in  Inverness-shire,  Scotland, 
October  27,  1736.  He  studied  at  Aberdeen  and  Edinburgh;  wrote 
much  verse  while  still  an  undergraduate;  in  1759  displayed  to  his 
friends  fragments  of  Gaelic  poetry  which  he  professed  to  have  trans- 
lated, and  was  advised  to  complete  and  publish  them ;  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  poems  his  veracity  was  attacked,  and  much  discus- 
sion followed,  especially  in  England;  on  the  publication  of  Dr. 
Johnson's  attack  on  the  authenticity  of  Macpherson's  publications, 
Macpherson  engaged  in  a  quarrel  with  him ;  he  denied  all  the  impu- 
tations, but  never  made  any  serious  effort  to  prove  the  true  charac- 
ter of  his  MSS.;  after  1763  abandoned  his  work  as  "translator;" 
went  to  Florida  as  secretary  to  the  Governor,  1764;  on  his  return  did 
some  work  as  political  pamphleteer  and  amateur  historian;  was 
English  agent  for  the  Nabob  of  Arcot,  about  1780;  was  Member  of 
Parliament  from  1780  till  his  death  on  February  17,  1796.  Mac- 
pherson's writings  include:  Fragments  of  Ancient  Poetry,  collected  in 
the  Highlands,  1760;  Fingal,  an  ancient  epic  poem,  with  other  poems 
composed  by  Ossian,  1763;  Temora,  etc.,  1763;  The  Iliad  of  Homer, 
translated  into  prose,  1773;  History  of  Great  Britain  from  the  Restora- 
tion to  the  accession  of  the  House  of  Hanover,  1775. 

There  are  several  editions  of  the  Ossianic  "poems,"  but  no  critical 
text;  a  convenient  edition  was  edited  by  William  Sharp,  1896.  The 
best  biographical  and  critical  accounts  of  Macpherson  are  T.  B. 
Saunders's  Life  and  Letters  of  James  Macpherson,  1895,  and  J.  S. 
Smart's  Macpherson,  an  Episode  in  Literature  1905.  On  the  Os- 
sianic poetry,  see  Shairp's  essay  on  "The  Poetry  of  the  Scottish 
Highlands,"  in  Aspects  of  Poetry,  and  Beers's  History  of  Romanti- 
cism in  the  i8th  Century. 

BERNARD  MANDEVILLE  was  born  in  Holland  about  1760.  He  was 
educated  at  Leyden  (M.  D.,  1691);  emigrated  to  England,  and 
practiced  medicine  unsuccessfully;  was  accused  of  writing  in  favor  of 
the  use  of  liquor,  at  the  behest  of  distillers;  rarely  moved  in  society 


718  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

of  the  better  sort,  but  attracted  attention  and  controversy  by  the 
doctrines  he  expounded  in  his  writings;  of  his  later  life  little  is 
known;  he  died  in  1733.  Mandeville's  writings  include  The  Grum- 
bling Hive  (verse),  1705;  The  Fable  of  the  Bees,  etc.,  1714;  Free 
Thoughts  on  Religion,  the  Church,  and  Natural  Happiness,  1720;  and 
various  pamphlets  in  verse  and  prose. 

There  is  no  modern  edition  of  The  Fable  of  the  Bees,  and  no  bio- 
graphy of  Mandeville.  On  his  doctrines  see  Leslie  Stephen's  essay 
on  "Mandeville's  Fable  of  the  Bees,"  in  Free  Thinking  and  Plain 
Speaking;  also  Stephen's  History  of  English  Thought  in  the  i8th  Cen- 
tury. Compare  also  Browning's  interpretation  of  Mandeville's  doc- 
trines hi  Parleyings  with  Certain  People. 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU  was  born  in  London,  May, 
1689.  She  was  educated  by  a  tutor,  and  exhibited  remarkable  abil- 
ity, especially  in  the  classics;  married  Edward  Wortley  Montagu,  a 
Whig  Member  of  Parliament,  1712;  was  well  known  as  a  wit,  and 
exchanged  letters  and  verses  with  Pope;  went  to  Turkey  in  1717,  her 
husband  being  ambassador  to  the  Porte;  returning  to  England,  she 
became  a  leader  in  polite  society;  went  to  Twickenham  to  be  near 
Pope,  but  later  quarreled  with  him,  and  engaged  in  a  war  of  satires; 
in  1739  went  abroad,  living  successively  at  Avignon,  Brescia,  and 
Venice;  did  not  return  to  England  till  after  her  husband's  death,  in 
1761;  died  August  21,  1762.  The  only  writings  of  Lady  Montagu 
published  during  her  lifetime  were  some  poems,  Town  Eclogues,  1716 
and  1747. 

The  correspondence  of  Lady  Montagu  was  edited  by  Moy 
Thomas  in  1861 ;  the  letters  are  reprinted  in  the  Bohn  Library.  For 
her  biography,  see  Thomas's  sketch;  Leslie  Stephen's  article  in  the 
D.  N.  B.;  and  G.  Paston's  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  and  her 
Times,  1907.  A  convenient  reprint,  with  comments,  of  many  of  the 
letters,  forms  A.  R.  Ropes's  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  1892. 

THOMAS  PAINE  was  born  at  Thetford,  Norfolk,  January '29, 1737. 
He  was  educated  only  at  the  grammar  school;  went  to  sea  in  a 
privateer  about  1754;  later  worked  in  London,  and  had  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  revenue  service,  from  which  he  was  dismissed  in  1774; 
in  London  met  Benjamin  Franklin,  who  gave  him  letters  to  America; 
reached  America  November,  1774,  and  became  connected  with  a 
Philadelphia  bookseller;  made  a  reputation  as  pamphleteer  on  be- 
half of  the  revolutionists;  served  in  the  revolutionary  army,  as  secre- 
tary to  the  Committee  of  Foreign  Affairs,  and  as  secretary  to  the 
Pennsylvania  Assembly;  went  to  France  on  a  mission,  1781;  re- 
turned to  England  in  1787,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  invention  of 
an  iron  bridge;  fled  to  Paris  after  the  publication  of  The  Rights  of 
Man,  1791;  was  elected  a  member  of  the  French  Convention,  1792, 
and  was  influential  till  the  fall  of  the  Girondins;  was  arrested  in 
December,  1793,  and  released  on  the  demand  of  the  American  minis- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  719 

ter;  wrote  pamphlets  attacking  Washington,  believing  him  ungrate- 
ful for  Paine's  services;  established  a  French  community  of  "Theo- 
philanthropists,"  1797;  returned  to  the  United  States,  1802;  lived 
in  New  York  during  his  last  years,  and  was  viewed  with  suspicion 
because  of  his  anti-religious  writings  and  his  drinking  habits;  died 
July  8,  1809.  Paine's  writings  include:  Common  Sense,  1776;  The 
Crisis  (i  6  pamphlets),  1776-83;  The  Rights  of  Man,  1791-92;  The  Age 
of  Reason,  1794-95  (part  3,  1807);  Letters  to  Citizens  of  the  United 
States,  1802;  besides  very  many  political  and  social  pamphlets. 

There  have  been  various  editions  of  Paine's  works;  the  standard 
is  now  that  of  Moncure  Conway  (1894-96),  who  also  wrote  the  Life 
of  Paine,  1892.  For  criticism,  see  M.  C.  Tyler's  Literary  History  of 
the  American  Revolution  and  Stephen's  History  of  English  Thought  in 
the  i8th  Century. 

ANN  RADCLIFFE  (nee  Ward)  was  born  in  London,  July  9,  1764. 
She  married  William  Radcliffe,  subsequently  proprietor  of  the 
English  Chronicle,  in  1787;  began  to  write  fiction  in  1789;  after  1797 
ceased  to  write  for  publication,  excepting  a  memoir  of  travels;  died 
February  7,  1823.  Her  writings  include:  A  Sicilian  Romance,  1790; 
The  Romance  of  the  Forest,  1791;  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  1794; 
The  Italian,  1797;  A  Journey  through  Holland  and  the  Western  Fron- 
tier of  Germany,  1795.  A  few  other  works  were  published  posthu- 
mously. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe's  novels  have  been  frequently  reprinted,  especially 
The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho;  a  convenient  edition  of  this  was  published 
by  Routledge,  1891.  For  biography,  see  Garnett's  article  in  the 
D.  N.  B.;  for  criticism,  Beers's  History  of  Romanticism  in  the  i8th 
Century  and  Raleigh's  English  Novel. 

SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  was  born  at  Plympton-EarFs,  Devonshire, 
July  16,  1723.  He  was  educated  only  at  the  grammar  school;  early 
showing  talent  for  drawing,  he  was  apprenticed  in  1740  to  the 
painter  Hudson;  soon  became  successful  as  a  painter  of  portraits; 
studied  in  Italy,  1749-52;  was  so  much  sought  after,  on  his  return, 
that  in  1759  he  had  156  sitters;  became  a  friend  of  Garrick,  Gold- 
smith, and  Johnson;  founded  the  Literary  Club,  commonly  called 
Dr.  Johnson's  Club,  1763  or  1764;  was  made  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy  on  its  foundation  in  1768;  delivered  several  discourses  to 
its  members  and  students;  was  knighted  in  April,  1769;  continued  to 
paint  actively  till  the  failure  of  his  eyesight,  in  1790;  died  February 
23,  1792.  Reynolds's  only  writings  were  the  Discourses  delivered  at 
the  Academy,  and  the  few  papers  he  contributed  to  Dr.  Johnson's 
Idler  series. 

The  Literary  Works  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  were  published  by 
Bohn,  in  two  volumes,  1899-90,  with  a  memoir  by  H.  W.  Beechey. 
See  also  Reynolds's  Life,  by  Lord  Ronald  Gower  (1902),  and  the 
article  by  Cosmo  Monkhouse  in  the  D.  N.  B. 


720  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON  was  born  in  Derbyshire,  in  1689.  He  received 
but  little  education,  but  early  became  known  among  his  friends  as 
a  skillful  letter-writer;  in  1706  was  apprenticed  to  a  stationer;  later 
learned  the  printing  business,  and  in  1719  took  it  up  for  himself; 
printed  various  periodicals,  and  the  Journals  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons; in  1739  engaged  to  write  a  volume  of  model  letters  for  uncul- 
tivated persons,  a  design  which  led  to  his  first  novel ;  from  this  time 
was  distinguished  as  a  novelist,  though  he  continued  his  printing 
business  till  his  death,  on  July  4,  1761.  Richardson's  only  import- 
ant writings  are  the  three  novels:  Pamela,  1740;  Clarissa  Harlowe, 
1747-8;  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  1753. 

The  best  edition  of  Richardson's  Works  is  in  twelve  volumes, 
1893,  with  a  prefatory  chapter  by  Leslie  Stephen.  There  are  many 
reprints  of  the  individual  novels,  some  of  them  conveniently 
abridged.  For  biography,  see  Richardson's  Correspondence,  with 
biographical  introduction  by  Mrs.  Barbauld,  1804,  and  the  life  by 
Austin  Dobson  in  the  Men  of  Letters  series.  For  criticism,  see  the 
essay  on  "Richardson's  Novels"  in  Leslie  Stephen's  Hours  in  a  Li- 
brary; the  various  histories  of  English  fiction;  and  J.  Texte's  Rous- 
seau and  the  Cosmopolitan  Spirit  in  Literature  (English  translation, 
1899),  —  an  important  account  of  the  connection  of  Richardson 
with  the  "sentimental  movement"  of  the  period. 

LORD  SHAFTESBURY  (ANTHONY  ASHLEY  COOPER,  third  Earl  of 
Shaftesbury)  was  born  in  London,  February  26,  1671.  He  was 
tutored  by  the  philosopher  Locke;  traveled  and  studied  on  the  con- 
tinent; was  Member  of  Parliament,  1695-98;  succeeded  to  the  earl- 
dom in  1699;  took  part  in  politics  as  a  Whig,  but  owing  to  a  weak 
constitution  avoided  much  activity ;  spent  a  year  in  Holland,  1 703-04 ; 
resided  chiefly  in  the  country;  went  to  Italy  for  his  health  in  1711, 
and  died  there  on  February  15,  1713.  Shaftesbury's  works  are  his 
miscellaneous  essays,  especially  on  philosophical  and  ethical  themes; 
the  chief  ones  were  collected  in  his  Characteristics  of  Men,  Manners, 
Opinions,  and  Times,  1711. 

There  is  an  excellent  edition  of  the  Characteristics,  edited  by 
J.  M.  Robertson,  1900.  For  biography,  see  the  Life,  Unpublished 
Letters,  and  Philosophical  Regimen  of  Anthony,  Earl  of  Shaftesbury, 
by  Benjamin  Rand,  1900;  for  criticism,  Leslie  Stephen's  History  of 
English  Thought  in  the  i8th  Century. 

TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT  was  born  in  Dumbartonshire,  Scot- 
land, in  March,  1721.  He  studied  medicine  at  Glasgow,  and  was 
apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  in  1736;  in  1739  went  to  London  and 
sought  to  produce  a  tragedy  he  had  written ;  obtained  a  position  as 
surgeon  in  the  West  India  squadron,  1741,  and  spent  some  time  in 
Jamaica;  settled  as  a  surgeon  in  Westminster,  1744;  wrote  some 
pamphlets  and  satires;  began  his  work  as  a  novelist  in  1748,  and 
continued  to  divide  his  time  between  medicine  and  literature;  edited 
the  Critical  Review  from  1756  and  the  British  Magazine  from  1760; 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  721 

undertook  the  innovation  of  publishing  a  novel  as  a  serial  in  the  lat- 
ter periodical;  engaged  in  many  editorial  undertakings,  for  aid  in 
which  he  employed  a  corps  of  small  writers;  traveled  on  the  Conti- 
nent for  his  health,  1763-65;  grew  morose  and  embittered,  and  be- 
came involved  in  many  quarrels;  again  went  abroad,  and  died  in 
Italy,  September  17,  1771.  Smollett's  works  include:  Roderick  Ran- 
dom, 1748;  Peregrine  Pickle,  1751;  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom,  1753; 
Complete  History  of  England,  1757-58;  Sir  Launcelot  Greaves,  1762; 
Travels  through  France  and  Italy,  1 766 ;  History  and  Adventures  of  an 
Atom,  1769;  Expedition  of  Humphrey  Clinker,  1771. 

The  best  edition  of  Smollett's  novels  is  in  twelve  volumes,  1899- 
1900,  edited  by  Saintsbury.  For  biography,  see  his  Life  by  David 
Hannay,  in  the  Great  Writers  series;  for  criticism,  Thackeray's 
English  Humourists,  and  the  various  histories  of  fiction. 

RICHARD  STEELE  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  March,  1672.  He  at- 
tended Charterhouse  School,  London,  and  Merton  College,  Oxford, 
leaving  in  1694  without  a  degree;  entered  the  army,  and  became  a 
captain;  began  to  write  for  the  stage  in  1701;  was  appointed  state 
gazetteer  in  1707;  founded  The  Taller  in  1709;  lost  his  gazetteership 
on  account  of  political  activity,  1710;  joined  Addison  in  The  Specta- 
tor, 1711 ;  engaged  in  political  pamphleteering;  was  elected  Member 
of  Parliament,  1713,  but  was  expelled  the  next  year  for  "seditious 
libel";  engaged  in  various  journalistic  undertakings;  on  the  acces- 
sion of  George  I  received  several  sinecure  offices  from  the  crown ;  was 
Member  of  Parliament  again  in  1715,  and  in  the  same  year  was 
knighted  by  the  king;  in  1719  engaged  in  a  political  quarrel  with 
Addison;  retired  to  his  estate  in  Wales  in  1724,  and  died  there,  Sep- 
tember i,  1729.  Steele's  writings  include  The  Christian  Hero,  1701; 
contributions  to  The  Taller,  1709-11;  to  The  Spectator,  1711-12;  to 
The  Guardian,  1713 ;  four  comedies;  and  many  pamphlets  and  short- 
lived periodicals. 

There  is  no  standard  collection  of  Steele's  works.  For  The  Spec- 
tator, see  Addison;  The  Taller  has  been  admirably  edited  by  G.  A. 
Aitken  (four  volumes,  1898).  There  are  also  well-edited  volumes  of 
selections  from  Steele  in  the  Athenaeum  Press  series  (ed.  G.  R.  Car- 
penter) and  the  Clarendon  Press  texts  (ed.  Austin  Dobson).  The 
authoritative  biography  is  G.  A.  Aitken's  (1889) ;  see,  for  briefer  use, 
the  article  by  Dobson  in  the  D.  N.  B.  For  criticism,  see  the  refer- 
ences under  Addison. 

LAURENCE  STERNE  was  born  in  Tipperary,  Ireland,  November  24, 
1713.  He  attended  school  at  Halifax,  and  Jesus  College,  Cam- 
bridge (B.  A.,  1736);  entered  the  church,  and  received  the  vicarage 
of  Sutton-in-the-Forest,  which  he  held  from  1738  to  1759;  spent 
much  time  at  York,  and  at  Skelton  Castle,  the  home  of  his  friend 
Hall-Stevenson,  with  a  social  club  which  came  to  be  called  "The 
Demoniacs";  quarreled  with  his  mother,  and  neglected  her  during 
her  last  years;  contributed  to  Whig  journals;  was  unfaithful  to  his 


722  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

wife,  who  became  temporarily  insane;  after  the  publication  of  the  first 
volume  of  Tristram  Shandy  went  to  London  and  enjoyed  his  fame; 
received  the  living  of  Coxwold,  and  moved  there  in  1760;  went  to 
France  for  his  health,  1762,  and  enjoyed  a  brilliant  reception  in  Paris 
society ;  returned  to  England  in  1 7  64 ,  buta  gain  visited  the  C  ontinent, 
October,  1765,  on  the  ''sentimental  journey;"  from  1766  engaged  in 
a  prolonged  flirtation  with  Mrs.  Eliza  Draper,  the  wife  of  an  India 
official,  and  wrote  for  her  the  Journal  to  Eliza;  was  always  in  doubt- 
ful health,  and,  his  weakness  increasing,  he  died  in  London  lodgings, 
March  18,  1768.  Sterne's  writings  include  The  Life  and  Opinions  of 
Tristram  Shandy,  1759-67;  Sermons  of  Mr.  Yorick,  1760-69;  A  Sen- 
timental Journey  through  France  and  Italy,  1768;  and  various  letters, 
published  posthumously. 

The  best  edition  of  Sterne's  Works  is  edited  by  Saintsbury  (six 
volumes,  1894).  There  are  also  a  convenient  two- volume  edition  in 
Macmillan's  Library  of  English  Classics,  and  various  reprints  of 
Tristram  and  the  Sentimental  Journey.  A  critical  biography  was  writ- 
ten by  H.  D.  Traill  for  the  Men  of  Letters  series,  but  the  authorita- 
tive Life  is  now  that  of  W.  L.  Cross  (1909).  For  criticism,  see  Thack- 
eray's English  Humourists;  an  essay  by  E.  H.  A.  Scherer,  in  Essays 
on  English  Literature;  an  essay  by  Leslie  Stephen,  in  Hours  in  a  Li- 
brary; an  essay  by  P.  E.  More,  in  Shelburne  Essays,  third  series;  and 
the  work  by  Texte  cited  under  Richardson. 

JONATHAN  SWIFT  was  born  at  Dublin,  November  30,  1667.  He 
attended  Trinity  College  (B.  A.,  1686);  on  going  to  England  lived 
with  Sir  William  Temple  at  Moor  Park,  and  acted  as  his  secretary; 
made  unsuccessful  efforts  in  poetry;  entered  the  church,  1694,  and 
received  a  living  near  Belfast;  returned  to  Moor  Park,  1696,  and 
employed  himself  in  study  and  in  preparing  Temple's  memoirs  for 
publication;  made  the  acquaintance  of  Esther  Johnson  ("Stella"),  a 
member  of  Temple's  household;  on  Temple's  death,  in  1699,  returned 
to  Ireland,  and  resided  there,  in  various  ecclesiastical  positions,  for 
the  rest  of  his  life;  made,  however,  frequent  and  sometimes  pro- 
longed visits  to  England;  in  1701  was  followed  to  Ireland  by  Stella, 
who  thereafter  resided  near  him  till  her  death  in  1728;  in  England 
became  a  friend  of  Addison  and  Pope,  and  had  some  influence  in 
courtly  circles  as  a  powerful  pamphleteer,  —  at  first  on  the  Whig 
side,  later  on  the  Tory;  became  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  1713,  but  was 
disappointed  in  his  hopes  of  a  bishopric;  was  rumored  to  have  been 
married  to  Stella,  but  the  facts  remain  uncertain;  in  1724  successfully 
opposed  the  introduction  into  Ireland  of  the  currency  called  "  Wood's 
Halfpence,"  by  his  Drapier  Letters;  joined  Pope  and  Arbuthnot  in 
the  writing  of  the  "Scriblerus"  Miscellanies;  after  Stella's  death 
became  increasingly  bitter  and  misanthropic,  and  after  1738  ex- 
hibited signs  of  mental  decay;  in  1742  was  committed  to  the  care  of 
guardians;  died  October  19, 1745.  Swift's  works  include:  A  Tale  of  a 
Tub,  with  an  account  of  a  Battle  between  the  Ancient  and  Modern 
Books,  1704;  Argument  on  the  Abolishing  of  Christianity  in  England ', 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  723 

1708;  Miscellanies  in  Prose  and  Verse,  1711;  Letters  concerning  the 
Brass  Halfpence  ("by  M.  B.  Drapier"),  1724;  Travels  .  .  .  by 
Lemuel  Gulliver,  1726;  Miscellanies  in  Prose  and  Verse  (with  Pope), 
1727-29;  Collection  of  Genteel  and  Ingenious  Conversation,  1738;  and 
very  many  pamphlets  embodying  discussions  of  English  and  Irish 
affairs  and  theological  and  social  satire. 

The  standard  edition  of  Swift's  Works  was  made  by  Walter 
Scott;  the  second  edition  of  this  was  reprinted  in  1883.  There  are 
good  volumes  of  selections  edited  by  Henry  Craik  (Clarendon  Press) 
and  F.  C.  Prescott  (Holt  and  Co.),  and  many  reprints  of  Gulliver's 
Travels  (one  of  the  best  being  that  in  the  Temple  Classics).  Swift's 
life  has  been  written  by  Leslie  Stephen,  for  the  Men  of  Letters  series, 
and  by  Henry  Craik  (1885).  See  also  the  important  work  by 
J.  Churton  Collins:  Swift,  a  Biographical  and  Critical  Study,  1893. 
Additional  criticism  may  be  found  in  Thackeray's  English  Humour- 
ists, and  in  an  interesting  essay  in  Miss  Vida  Scudder's  Social  Ideals 
in  English  Letters. 

HORACE  WALPOLE  (fourth  Earl  of  Orford)  was  born  in  London, 
September  24, 1717  (0.  S.).  He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  at  King's 
College,  Cambridge,  leaving  in  1739  to  make  a  tour  of  the  Continent 
in  company  with  Thomas  Gray;  quarreled  with  Gray,  and  they 
separated  in  1741,  but  were  afterward  reconciled  and  remained  close 
friends;  became  Member  of  Parliament,  and  held  several  sinecure 
offices  through  the  influence  of  his  father,  Sir  Robert  Walpole, 
prime  minister;  in  1747  took  a  house  at  Twickenham,  and  began  the 
development  of  a  pseudo-Gothic  residence,  "Strawberry  Hill"; 
established  a  private  press  there,  where  were  printed  Gray's  poems 
and  many  other  books;  remained  in  Parliament  till  1767,  but  took 
little  part  in  politics;  spent  much  time  in  letter- writing;  succeeded 
to  the  earldom  of  Orford  in  1791;  died  in  London,  March  2,  1797. 
Walpole's  writings  include:  A  Catalogue  of  the  Royal  and  Noble 
A  uthors  of  England  ,1758;^  necdotes  of  Painting  in  England,  1762-71; 
The  Castle  ofOtranto,  1764;  The  Mysterious  Mother,  a  Tragedy,  1768; 
besides  the  hundreds  of  letters  published  posthumously. 

Walpole's  Letters  were  collected  by  Peter  Cunningham,  in  eight 
volumes,  1891;  a  more  complete  edition  was  made  by  Mrs.  Paget 
Toynbee,  in  sixteen  volumes,  1903-05.  The  Castle  ofOtranto  is  most 
accessible  in  the  reprint  in  Cassell's  National  Library.  For  bio- 
graphy, see  Austin  Dobson's  Horace  Walpole,  a  Memoir,  1890.  An 
agreeable  selection  from  the  letters,  with  comments,  forms  L.  B. 
Seeley's  Horace  Walpole  and  his  World.  For  criticism,  see  Macau- 
lay's  essay  on  Walpole,  Leslie  Stephen's  essay  in  Hours  in  a  Library, 
and  (for  The  Castle  of  Otranto)  Beers's  History  of  Romanticism  in  the 
i8th  Century. 

JOSEPH  WARTON  was  born  at  Dunsfold,  Surrey,  in  April,  1722. 
He  went  to  Winchester  School  and  Oriel  College,  Oxford  (B.  A., 
1744) ;  entered  the  church,  and  was  his  father's  curate;  wrote  poetry 


724  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

as  a  recreation;  traveled  as  chaplain  to  the  Duke  of  Bolton;  became 
second  master  at  Winchester  School,  1755,  remaining  there  till  1793 
(head  master  from  1766);  was  a  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  Burke,  and  Garrick;  retired  to  Wickham  in  1793,  where 
he  died  February  23, 1800.  Warton's  works  include:  Odes  on  Various 
Subjects,  1746;  edition  and  translation  of  Virgil,  1753;  contributions 
to  Dr.  Johnson's  A  dventurer,  1753-56;  Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writ- 
ings of  Pope  (vol.  i)  1756  and  (vol.  ii)  1782;  an  edition  of  Pope's 
Works,  1797. 

There  is  no  modern  edition  of  the  Essay  on  Pope.  For  biography, 
see  Sidney  Lee's  article  in  the  D.  N.  B.;  for  criticism,  an  essay  on 
"The  Wartons"  in  John  Dennis's  Studies  in  English  Literature,  and 
Beers's  History  of  Romanticism  in  the  i8th  Century. 

THOMAS  WARTON  (brother  of  Joseph  Warton)  was  born  at  Basing- 
stoke,  January  9,  1728.  He  was  educated  by  his  father  and  at 
Trinity  College,  Oxford  (B.  A.,  1747);  took  orders,  but  remained  at 
the  University  as  tutor  and  fellow;  wrote  poetry  as  an  amateur; 
studied  early  English  literature  with  a  thoroughness  very  unusual 
for  his  time;  was  elected  Professor  of  Poetry  in  1757,  and  for  ten 
years  lectured  on  classical  topics;  in  1785  became  Camden  Professor 
of  History;  was  appointed  Poet  Laureate  on  the  death  of  Whitehead 
in  1785,  but  was  unsuccessful  as  an  official  poet;  died  in  his  college, 
May  20,  1790.  Warton's  works  include:  Observations  on  the  Fairy 
Queen  of  Spenser,  1754;  contributions  to  Johnson's  Idler,  1758-59; 
an  edition  of  Theocritus,  1770;  History  of  English  Poetry,  1774-81 
(never  finished) ;  an  edition  of  Milton's  minor  poems,  1785 ;  and  vari- 
ous poems. 

There  is  no  modern  edition  of  Warton's  Observations  on  the  Fairy 
Queen.  For  biography  and  criticism,  the  references  are  the  same  as 
for  Joseph  Warton. 

GILBERT  WHITE  was  born  at  Selborne,  Hampshire,  July  18,  1720. 
He  attended  Oriel  College,  Oxford  (B.  A.,  1743);  became  a  fellow  of 
Oriel;  entered  the  church,  1747,  and  held  various  curacies,  but  ap- 
parently never  aspired  to  important  livings  because  of  his  desire  to 
live  at  Selborne;  resided  there  continuously  until  his  death,  and 
devoted  himself  largely  to  observation  as  a  naturalist;  in  1767 
became  acquainted  with  the  naturalist  Pennant,  and  in  1769  with 
Barrington,  his  later  letters  to  these  friends  forming  the  nucleus  of 
his  Selborne;  contributed  to  the  transactions  of  the  Royal  Society; 
gradually  formed  the  idea  of  making  a  book  from  his  notes  and  let- 
ters; never  married,  but  entertained  hospitably  at  his  home;  died 
there  on  June  26,  1793.  White's  one  book  was  The  Natural  History 
and  Antiquities  of  Selborne,  1789. 

There  have  been  several  modern  editions  of  Selborne;  one  of  the 
best  is  an  American  reprint  with  an  Introduction  by  John  Bur- 
roughs, 1895.  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Gilbert  White  of  Selborne,  by 
R.  Holt- White,  appeared  in  1901. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Addison,  Joseph,  159. 

Anti-Jacobin,  The,  691. 

Berkeley,  George,  231. 

Bolingbroke,  Lord,  273. 

Boswell,  James,  624. 

Burke,  Edmund,  558. 

Burney,  Frances  (Mme.  d'Arblay),  511. 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  315. 

Gibber,  Colley,  269. 

Cowper,  William,  525. 

Defoe,  Daniel,  i. 

Dennis,  John,  211. 

Fielding,  Henry,  293. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  537. 

Godwin,  William,  667. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  435. 

Gray,  Thomas,  324. 

Hume,  David,  410. 

Hurd,  Richard,  462. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  341. 


"Junius,"  425. 

Lewis,  Matthew  Gregory,  684. 

Macpherson,  James,  697. 

Mandeville,  Bernard,  245. 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  255. 

Monthly  Review,  The,  534. 

Paine,  Thomas,  616. 

Pope,  Alexander,  265. 

Radcliffe,  Ann,  676. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  421. 

Richardson,  Samuel,  281. 

Shaftesbury,  Lord,  222. 

Smollett,  Tobias,  502. 

Steele,  Richard,  123. 

Sterne,  Laurence,  480. 

Swift,  Jonathan,  52. 

Walpole,  Horace,  467. 

Warton,  Joseph,  336. 

Warton,  Thomas,  331. 

White,  Gilbert,  550. 


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